Look here, so some petty drama has led me down the path of poet-come-blogger and I’m trying to find somewhere to start. Now, of course, that has everything to do with my existential anxiety piledriving me into a vacuum. Not to mention my rampant addiction issues that seem to control my life and livelyhood, but that’s another story for a better time when I’m sober…which is never.
ATM I’m heaped on my sofa, hot laptop atop my lap, sitting on my extensive poetry collection I’ve permanently borrowed from the local library. Not that they want their books back if they’re all highlighted and underlined, tabbed like a hippie. Poems, memoirs, plays, all under my ass absorbing the poofs I expel courtesy of the half gallon of milk I binged on today.
I’m dizzy, my tongue’s numb, glasses are crooked but the insurance on them is up so I can’t get them fixed. Who cares anyway? This is writing. This is art. This is drama. This is LIFE. THIS MAKES NO SENSE AND I LOVE IT.