Still depressed. Hell, it’s become a low, constant, hum in my soul. This is all the writing I do, now. This was another lost day. Not even I give a fuck anymore: about anything except Grendel’s well-being.
I’ve got to try writing these in the a.m. Maybe listing what I hope to do each day will make for a better write/read than this.
Please, God.
This just isn’t my natural state, always being such a “Debbie Downer”.
Arguing for my independence with my trust lords has gotten really old, really fast. See, I’m like a poor man’s Brittany Spears: all my money is in a special needs trust, dispensed as need be by my Trustees: Gil Roth and Peter Johnson. Gil, I’ve been friends with since St. John’s. Peter does this for a living, & cuts me a world of always legal and ethical slack. More tomorrow. Nighty-night.