Out of the Game

Good morning, sinners. I hope you've all enjoyed your breaks, been relaxing, keeping informed.

Lord knows I haven't.

I'll be entirely honest with you, this is the first time I've even been back to this dirty little corner of the Internet since the last time I wrote something on here. I've been getting caught up in the mundane, involving myself in the day-to-day to the extent that I completely lost sight of the Big Picture, and I have much catching up to do. I'm out of practice; rusty. I can feel it in my joints, in my mind. In my nostrils, for some weird reason, but that might just be the remnants of last night's thing. Trust nothing powdered and Thai in nature, for it is evil and must not be allowed to go unset-on-fire.

See? I'm already providing you with these valuable life lessons. Admit it, you missed me.

I do need to get Back In. I need to remember how to do all this. I can't let myself get so far out of practice that when something massive comes up, something of crucial importance, I'm just left staring dumbly at a computer screen, wondering what to do now. Good journalism, good writing, ought to be off-the-cuff. Polishing can come later, but if you're not shitting at least good hunks of carbon that can later become diamonds, you'll never stand a chance. There's an old saying about ribbons on fecal matter I'll let you look up, but it's the same principle.

In essence I'm making that tired old blogger's promise that I'm actually going to write more often, except I'm not. For all you know, I'm fleeing to Zimbabwe tomorrow, and this'll be the last you ever hear of me. I am the Wind, creeping through the sleeping town. My every word is made of gold. What are you talking about, you bastards? I'm not drunk. I WAS drunk, I am no longer drunk.

Keep your ears open, my little sperm-flunkies. I've missed you, and I might just start talking at you.

-Tambour