I get my throat check, and my butt, this week. Unfortunately, it’s distracting me from truth & reconciliation, although there was a wonderfully powerful concert on the television at lunch. You can feel the land and heritage in the music, and that’s wonderful.

But my guts hurt.

I’m about fifty percent sure that it’s prostate cancer, and fifty percent sure I’m being ridiculous.

It’s probably the latter, but we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t worry about the consequences of our actions.

All that clean livin’, you know.

Moderation in all things.

Including moderation.

Target: 1700 words
Written: 1823 words, novel: Father Lightning

Read: Proof Of Conspiracy, Seth Abramson (goddamn, this is a lot to take in, but required reading if you want to understand the Trump era, and just how dangerous and grifty it is)
Comics: Marvel Knights 12-15 (thank god that's done.  Marvel Knights sucked monkey balls.)
Music: HAVE A BALL PLUS BOWLING TIPS FROM THE GUTTER PUNKS, ME FIRST AND THE GIMMIE GIMMIES (is grifty a word?  Griftery?  Griftodacious?)