And so I did. Let it all slide.

Everything but the writing and reading.

Meditation? Nope.

Exercise? Nope.

I even forgot to walk the dogs, and neither my wife or I noticed until it was bedtime.

Good thing we wore them out the previous couple of days.

Now, if only someone would allow me a day of rest.

My “sick” day, taken for rest, wasn’t exactly restful. I’m tired of the constant go.

I need hibernation. I need newness. I need to get laid.

I need to be out of this routine, and committed (in either sense of the word).

Target: 900 words
Written: 649 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Happiest Days Of Our Lives, Wil Wheaton (ironic, ain't it?)
Comics: The Wicked + The Divine 8-11
Music: Random Cover, Anti-Flag

Like this one.

Most of the time, I want to write about what I’m feeling, what I’m going through, and I know it comes across as probably depressing, or angry, or manic depressive, a bit bipolar.

I’ve never been diagnosed with anything, but that’s because I refuse to go, mostly. I suffer from depression, I know it, but like I said, nothing formal.

I went once to a therapist when I broke down at work and had to take some time off, but all he wanted to do was ask me questions about internet pricing. I wonder if he ever wondered why I didn’t come back, or why I was staring at him with abhorrent disgust on my face.

That’s a guy who should not be practicing psychiatry, not if he thinks an initial session should be to talk about how much bandwidth he might get at his place, rather than what brought me in that day.

So, that’s my experience with therapists. I’m sure there’s better out there, but fuck, who has the time or money?

That’s the thing this new touchy feely existence of ours forgets – it’s offset against the horror of unrelenting capitalism, which leaves us with neither the time nor the funds to be able to engage in any of the things they want to sell us, unless we’re rich.

And ain’t none of us rich, baby.

Target: 900 words
Written: 940 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Unholy Night, Seth Grahame-Smith
Comics: Phonogram 5-6, Phonogram: The Singles Club 1-2 (if I ever need to point to a work of utter pretentiousness, the exact kind of bullshit clever art we should all avoid, this is it - never read fiction written by someone whose interface with music is critical instead of connecting.)
Music: Some Random Folk Stuff, Todd Snider

I fear for some women.

Look, I like a thin woman as much as anyone, but there is a point where it’s gone too far and the concern stops being “is she fit and attractive?” to “are you okay?”

“Do you need help?”

The pressure women are under to look perfect is unbearable. Better to be happy than thin; better to be overweight than unhealthy.

Positive body image is wonderful; obesity is still a threat.

I’m fat. Obese, if you believe the Wii Fit I stand on for ‘exercise’ each morning. I have no authority to judge. I care not for fashion. I dress mostly like I’ve been working around the house or lounging around in my sweats (though I rarely wear sweats – I mostly stick to band/beer/superhero t-shirts and board shorts).

I don’t like shoes.

I am not anti-fashion; that would be more like Kurt Cobain. I’m more like non-fashion. I don’t exist in fashion.

I am fashion-pathetic, as well as apathetic.

(A pathetic?)

Anyway, this weather woman looks beyond unhealthy; if it’s not an eating disorder, it’s veganism.

Or meth.

She’s definitely missing something in her diet. She would have been attractive twenty pounds ago; now, she’s more crypt-keeper than svelte.

Anyway, I’m concerned for her. It’s none of my business, obviously, and I’m sure many a folk will cancel me for daring to say so, but I’m just very concerned.

I just want to ask:

“Are you okay?”

Because I’m sure as hell not.

Target: 900 words
Written: 1177 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sylvie And Bruno, Lewis Carroll
Comics: Phonogram 1-4
Music: Random For A While Yet, The Rolling Stones