Holy shit, writing is working very well. I haven't exercised these muscles in a long time, and I really like the feel of it. It's a nice way to not feel so alone at home. I'm still working on Meat, and I am pretty sure I know where it's going. It's not nice-n-pretty, but I may never get to the point where I write anything that doesn't have a taint of some kind to it. That and I am reading through House of Leaves, which is more than a little creepy.
Someone I know suggested outpatient work for various violence I was involved in when I was younger. "You have a lot of anger in you." Well, yeah, have you read anything I've written? "That means you're volatile, and with the amount of guns you own and your perpetual drive to get through things [including people], you probably need to get some kind of treatment." I suppose when you put it that way, I'm going to start ruminating, cogitating. Writing. I wonder if there are straightjackets with support for laptops. Please? It's a really little laptop.
And so life becomes more novel. Hah, novel.
