when, if not now?

Staring down another week of work. Sunday night is easier to ignore than it once was. Numbness may explain this phenomenon. The numbness of compounded years of repeated tedium, plus the numbness that two half fingers of scotch affords, that's one whole finger if you're counting. I'm celebrating because the late-season cold that I've been battling has abated in an entirely unexpected fashion. Must have been all that elderberry extract that I've been guzzling. Hopefully the scotch doesn't negate its benefit.

Fruitflies (i.e. Drosophila melanogaster) are driving me crazy. They fester around strawberry hulls, banana peels and glasses of scotch.

This blog is supposed to be about writing and words, but look at what I'm doing here. I'm blathering about nothing in particular because I'm under the influence. I am so ashamed of my need for lexical exhibitionism. I wish I could control the impulse. Alas, I am weak.

Re: writing and words - I thought I was close to beginning something of substance, but all I do is think about it distantly, as though I am afraid to approach the subject. There, I said it.

I will regret this recklessness tomorrow morning at six o'clock. My guarded existence is shaking a finger at me right now, but I choose to pretend that I don't notice. It will have me in its fierce grip soon enough, as I hurtle down the highway toward the numbness that keeps me safe.