BLOGGING AS USUAL

I kick back on my bed and listen to Muddy Waters. His wife done left him and he don't give a damn. I should be playing lead, blowing on a harp and captivating the crowd with my original licks. Doubling up on the Xanax with a glass of water at my side, I might impress a plain but clean baby. We would ravish each other until the winds starting blowing this wayward soul down the road.

I'm leaving and I'm not sure when I'm coming home. I'm leaving and I'm not sure when I'm coming home. But when I do you better be near a phone.

I'm heading down the line and I don't know when I'll be back. I'm heading down the line and I don't know when I'll be back. I'm a gypsy following that railroad track.

I'm empty, which isn't a bad feeling compared to the torment that has become bored with itself. The torment grants me a short respite so it can attack me with renewed vigor. I went to bed early last night, awoke around midnight, read, took a Xanax and slept until noon.

I was at the county courthouse listening to a case and conversing with various lawyers. I ate a shrimp cocktail, returned to my place and took a nap. I'm sitting in my bed asking myself if my mental woes will turn me into working recluse in the same manner that my father was a working alcoholic.

I don't need to walk the streets everyday. I know this town so well that I that I can dedicate myself to writing realistic fiction without leaving the room. I'm lethal on the blog with a photo and Facebook gives me access to thousands of pictures. I can rummage through files like a Peeping Tom until I discover one that excites my creativity.

It doesn't take much to please the public. Three or four articles on a slow day, wild art and anything else that occurs to me is sufficient to placate my public. Blogs are ephemeral undertakings with freedom rather than the future the first priority.

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