…I’ve written nothing or at least very little for a long time, months; much of last year all of this year. Lots of things come to mind on which to remark but I’m of a mind these days to say, why bother, who cares, indeed - what’s the sense of anything…
…hours pass, blank hours I hide in playing Scrabble, cribbage, cribbage, Scrabble, crabble, scribbage, bibble babble, say, pass that pipe over here and please pour us another glass of champagne Love, do come sit closer…
…in another way it’s not troubling, consider: not taking time out to write has left me many hours available in which to pursue the nefarious pleasures of life in the subterranean breakdown lane, i.e. drink some of (quite a bit of) Cook’s Sparkling Wine (see Page 1), eating until stuporous, running up the phone bill and smoking herb ‘til blue smoke emanates simultaneously from every orifice above the neck.
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2 comments:
Ahhh, for Christ's sake........ get the fuck over it. Your boredom is becoming your readers' boredom. You've been places, you've met people.... how about writing 'bout them/there? No one cares about how many sheets of toilet paper you might use daily..... nor how much you might drink or smoke each day. Get BACK to being 'interesting' & fuck a bunch of BIG words.... just write shit that matters.
I'll do my best there Big Fellow...thanks for your critique in the vernacular...
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