It goes on and on and on. I think I’m going a little mad. Try to be nice to me. I probably can’t hear you.

I don’t want to go deaf. I’d miss music too much. I wouldn’t miss the sound of people’s voices.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1504 words, novel: Father Lightning

welcome back

Tinnitus is pretty bad, but I can hear again today, after spending an entire day wallowing around in the sound of silence, where everything got to feel like it’s underwater.

I can enjoy Fiona Apple again! Yay!

And I slept, sort of. With heavy drugs and a double dose of NyQuil.

Hopefully, this is me on the mend.

The dog loves my nieces. You should have seen her. Prancy dancing around the living room and foyer like she’d never seen anything more exciting in her life.

And yes, we have a foyer, but that’s because we bought a Chatham icon’s old house; the author of Romantic Kent built the place with servants and no plumbing. A hundred years later, it has plumbing, a secret set of what we call murder stairs beneath the shower and an endless stream of problems.

A money pit, really.

Bukowski would hate me, but we’d have some good times. We could talk about cats.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 415 words, novel: Father Lightning

another night

Another inability to sleep. I took two big swigs of NyQuil and a purple gummy my daughter swears is sleep-inducing and totally not weed.

I didn’t get stoned, so I guess she wasn’t lying.

Although, at this point, a little break from my brain might be kind of nice. I’m never big on the inability to focus when it comes to marijuana though; I’m more of a magic mushrooms and booze kind of guy.

Which reminds me. I read On Cats by Bukowski yesterday.

I have so far to go.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 2180 words, novel: Father Lightning


One step closer to the weekend; one more night of garbage sleep.

Ugh. This whatever this is (not COVID again, thankfully), it’s really making it difficult to sleep. Every night, within about an hour of going to bed, my nose plugs completely, ensuring that every time I drift off, I’ll choke on my own inability to draw breath anywhere except through my mouth.

That results in wild snoring, which keeps both me and my wife up (that’s right, I’m waking myself up).

The NyQuil doesn’t help. It’s congested up so high in my noise that no Kleenex can unblock it, and no amount of blowing does anything but pop my ears.

But it’s fine all day.

Go figure.

Here’s hoping this mini-nightmare breaks soon.

I have shit to do and sleep to have.

For those that say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead, fuck you. I’d rather sleep now. Batteries need charging. Heads need to stop pounding. Bodies need to ache less. Recharging is nothing if not a wonder, and ignoring that is pure folly.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1615 words, novel: Father Lightning

victoria day

I mean, I could give two shits about the queen and I tend to think of the Royal family as Overly Proper Kardashians, but I do appreciate the day off.

Maybe we should make it favour of the guy who discovered penicillin or Yuri Gagarin or something.

You know, instead of imperial leeches responsible for much suffering, much patriarchy and much waste of everyone’s time and money.

Fuck King Charles. That coronation was a waste of funds that could have been used in the healthcare system to save lives, or teach children, or generally make the world a better place, instead of propping up the egos of a family of straight parasites.

If Canada ever votes on getting rid of the monarchy, I know what my vote will be, without question.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1816 words, novel: Father Lightning

home james

Yes, home please. It’s been a long weekend, and I have shit I have to do.

Dog beds to buy. Dogs to pick up. Cats to snuggle.

Books to read. Books to write.

Comics. Maybe a nice cold beer.

Take me home or lose me forever, said a bad movie with severely toxic male role models.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 800 words, novel: Father Lightning


My granddaughter is two today. She has become this super sweet little girl, even though at this age, her favourite word is no. Her second favourite is silly bop-bop, which is the toddler equivalent of Pop-Pop and one I’ve happily adopted. Because she gave it to me, I’d rather be called Bop-Bop or Bop-Pop at this point.

It’s friggin’ adorable, just like this kid.

Happy birthday, munchkin.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 2197 words, novel: Father Lightning

sick (sort of)

I’m playing a little hooky from work today, not because I want to, but because I don’t have a choice in the matter. Choosing between family and work will always see me choose family, and well, here we are.

I mean, I worked through COVID, but that was just me. For someone I love, I’d play hooky every day.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 846 words, novel: Father Lightning


I’m having difficulty focusing. I know we’re going away this weekend, and I’ve only just caught up on all the stuff I missed while galavanting around France, and I don’t want to fall behind again.

As always, I yearn for the simple life. One where all I do is read, write and cook, with the occasional bouts of meditation and healthy exercise, a trip or two, some nice sex and a close-knit group of non-judgmental, drama free friends and family.

Pipe dreams, all. Living the dream is an illusion. People will always let you down. Life will always intrude. Happy lives are for rom-com movies and bad TV shows.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 1648 words, novel: Father Lightning

less productive

It’s weird how being in the office has had no effect on my productivity; save for the things I do for myself in a day. What a world we would have if we cut out all the unnecessary bullshit and let people do the things they love, and celebrate them for it.

No working for a dollar. No rock ‘n’ roll pros, playing for the lawyers, as Local H would say.

Just people playing on whatever they want, without judgment, only help and support.

No more assholes. No more soul crushing work. No more cruelty.

Just a life of kindness and support.

What a fucked-up world that would be, isn’t it? The fact that you’re (and by extension, me) are already thinking it’s impossible shows just how far we have to go, and how much better we could be.

It doesn’t have to happen all at once. Protopia is better than utopia, any day. Incremental improvement is still improvement; the only sin is being so far jaded that the effort becomes impossible, instead of inevitable.

Target: 1400 words
Written: 328 words, novel: Father Lightning