Last night in bed, I tried to find some posts on my blog that would give me an idea how I handled this situation in the past. Turns out I stopped blogging right after I asked my wife to marry me, and didn’t start again for more than a year. And that sucks because that was exactly the time period where everything went dark.

On the plus side, as I read through my archives I thought to myself: some of this shit is good. And some of that shit has no likes, so you probably don’t even know about it. Or maybe you do and you don’t like it.

After I posted that shit yesterday I went and wrote some even more whiny ass shit in my brown leather book. Then I wrote in huge scribbles “Shut the fuck up!” A bunch of different ways and then I just stared at it for a while. Then I poured myself a big drink, which I’m usually afraid to do around my wife. And I drank that shit and sliced up some mushrooms and I felt fine.

Later I read some blog posts about people being in love and drank some more and then I said fuck it. It’s like I’m always looking for someone else to define me. I remember times thinking I should break up with my wife because I want to do my own shit, back before we were married. And I would usually remember that five seconds after we broke up I’d find some other girl to tell me what to do. I don’t even know if I really like doing drugs. I probably just can’t stand to be in control of myself or something.

Shit it’s fucking crazy to think about. I don’t even know what I want to do.

Also, shit man, I should probably try to write second drafts and stop being fucking lazy. I’m not the second coming of Jack Kerouac after all.

This morning we ate at Russ and Daughters and I ordered a greyhound, just to keep myself in check.