538 words

Not a good night. Rough on the fam­i­ly, rough on me with John Prine dying, just pan­dem­ic close­ness rub­bing every­body, well me, the wrong way. I didn't, couldn't write last night, and I'm in a shit­ty mood, so I'm count­ing these words as des­per­ate and plead­ing with the mus­es to give  me just a few more over the next month or so. And I want to apol­o­gize to my wife pub­licly for being such a prick. I'm sor­ry, baby. That's all. You all can call this the con­fes­sion­al blog.

It sucks some­times, all the time, but most of the time you have to do the work any­way. But not always. Some­times, like last night, I couldn't imag­ine doing it, and I'm pay­ing for it in guilt all day antic­i­pat­ing when I can get to the key­board and make it right, and words won't come, like tonight. Waah waah wahh. I did­nt have to do it. I could stop. But I'm not going to.

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