I’m depressed as all fucking hell. My idea for a Trump-inspired holiday party, “Moscow on the Schuykill” has dissolved like so much wet toilet paper. I just don’t know if I have the wherewithal to keep going. I’M VIRTUALLY friendless, can’t/don’t/won’t write anymore; and in a depression so severe that I truly truly don’t know if I can pull myself back from the abyss or not.
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.
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