The Gonzo Wolf

The coffee touched my lips without springing much of a wake-up call. Is this going to be another dreadful Monday? I haven’t even bothered to check the weather. I’m failing as an old man.

My schedule this morning says I’ve set aside time to work on the script and a song, but I’m already being bombarded with tales of how to mod a Nintendo 3DS and how logic no longer seems to exist at 6:58 am on a Monday. I’m writing; not texting. Who would I even text? I don’t know anyone!

Yep, I can feel the veil being draped over my head by the powers that be and darkness is soon to follow. Why must my personal space be infiltrated at the most inoperable times? It’s not like I can schedule inspiration; just hope. I set aside blocks of time and hope for the best. My best lingers somewhere between waking dreams and end of day depression for not achieving them.

First thing in the morning is the worst time to ask me to do anything out of the ordinary, especially since I fail to thrive on impromptu flights of fancy. It’s well documented. I like to control what I can, which isn’t much.

How am I supposed to break the cycle when the cycle keeps rolling ever closer? It looks so inviting. My comfort zone? Staring at blackness while the most traumatic of home movies replays in my head for an audience of one. It matters not that I’m the only person in the theater. The movie isn’t scary; it’s the empty seats.

Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. The scream tugs at its leash as it inches ever closer to the front door. Tariffs and failed diplomatic envoys; we, collectively, can no longer do anything right. Failure is the new endgame.