A weekday afternoon. Bright sun comes through the window. Some days everything conspires to nail you to the wall. Days like this remind me how fucked-up everybody, including me, is and why I am forced to take the drugs I do in order to just hold my place on this side of hell. And it is hell we are in, take my word for it.
Writing is hell.
Getting through the day is like hell. This kid is such a bonehead fuck-up it defies description. You tell someone to be somewhere at a particular time, you'd think they could remember or at least do something even remotely human. But not goddam Ramone. So, when I finally realize that Ramone is a dead issue I go up to see Nora who really ladles out the abuse in mega-bytes.