I suppose the best thing I could do in this moment is write about today. I mean, I’m living the writer’s dream: crashed out in a hotel, tree-headed, tummy full of cheap tacos, and zoning out to reruns of a cheaply made Dan Aykroyd paranormal show. It’s synonymous with how The Greats spread their wares during the last cold war. I’m honored to be a bard in the coming revolts.

I attended a book event at a brewery today. I actually stood beside my own demon and maintained with ease. Almost four years of sobriety in the next few months, and this small victory reopens more book and music venues.

My partner in crime is doom scrolling beside me as we share my stepson’s Halloween candy. He doesn’t know, because he’s playing Minecraft on his laptop with his biological father 2000 miles away. It’s times like these when I ask myself, “why are most commercials on broadcast television about weird sounding drugs?”

Do people actually talk to their doctor about crap they saw on television? Every doc/nurse I’ve ever dealt with looked annoyed whenever I pretended like I knew what the hell I was talking about. If I was a doctor, I’d prescribe such patients violent laxatives disguised as tweaker cheese.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon, my lovelies. The TV in this hotel room is bigger than any we have at home. That fact speaks volumes ❤️

The hottentots are running amuck in Hollywood.