Tuesday, December 3, 2019

The Wilderness Years - Hey - An Xmas Tale

Over the course of the years the holidays were often very good to me when it came to women. Not that i went out looking for anything in particular just things always seemed to fall nicely into place. Call it dumb luck if you will but i understand now that women liked me. Maybe it was my wayward self who seemed to need some guidance or maybe it was just the fact i looked like a good time to certain females. And so it was that my first Xmas back in the burgh after an ill fated stint in grad school found me staring down the prospect of a few days alone in my apartment. Now don't get the impression that this was going to be some maudlin affair, i was quite happy about the prospect of being alone in my transient hood of half-wits and low-lives all milling about and waiting for the bars to open as this was the type of neighborhood that had bars open on the birth of little ole baby Jeebus. Two months earlier i had made the acquaintance of one Hippy Jack and since then things had gone swimmingly. I had begun to save some money and had enough jack in my pocket to have a fairly swell night out any time i so chose but let's not loose the thread here

I had first met Delilah down at the shore, the infamous summer of Audrey and Elise, she was dating a co-worker/quasi friend of mine. She hailed from the fair burgh as did most of the people i ran with. She was still a kid really, 17 at the time and the guy she was dating loved to tell anyone and everyone just how much fun she was, how she liked girls as well, how in love she was with him. He had a penchant for talking like he was in the know about all things hip and cool, a bit of an opinionated dick who could be a moody prick at the Fry Hut when he didn't get his way, doing his best to ingratiate himself to the boss so that he could get the easy gigs. Back then i was the wild-eyed boy from Freecloud, the fledgling poet/painter who loved psychedelic drugs like fish loved water. The boss loved me for my innate ability to work like an ox know matter how fucked up i was and our boy, seeing this, did his best to associate himself with me whenever he could.

The beauty of the shore was the open air flop-houses that we all occupied, the old whorehouse where i lived that summer always had the door open and you could usually find someone willing to get fucked up at any time of day. I was pre-Fry Hut when i first met Delilah, grifting the graveyard shift register at the 7/11 (until of course i was seconds from getting a gun pointed at me hence my exit from that job to my next gig at the Fry Hut.) I was drifting away from our friend Angel (as in dust) and drifting into Audrey and some acid and specials (the name for the joints i rolled where i covered the paper in hash oil), listening to an inordinate amount of Pavement, the VU, and Jane's Addiction. I had a stack of books, an easel, and a stereo in my sweltering room and it was there where our boy first brought Delilah to meet me ostensibly to show off his prize.

She was already built like the proverbial brick shithouse and she batted her eyes at me and told me she had heard a lot about me, looked at the easel and some small watercolors lying about, was in awe of the books stacked up. A pile heavy on Bukowski and the Beats, mainly Burroughs and Keroauc, some Celine and Nelson Algren, gazed at the CDs and asked to play something, Jane's Addiction as it was her favorite at the time. I rolled up a bomber while her boy grabbed some beers from the fridge downstairs, whose they were i had no idea, and we settled back for a bit of session and talked. Back then i was pretty good in the conversation department. She spent a good part the gab session smiling sexily at me, i could tell i had my hooks in.

Fast forward three years. I'm back in the burgh, the weed business up and running. One day the phone rang and who should it be but Delilah. She had gotten my number from someone and she wondered if she could score some weed. She said she'd love it if we could hang out sometime as well. I said that sounded excellent and so we talked a bit and tried to work out a time when she could stop over. Seemed she was working second shift and going to school so her time was tight but it just so happened that she was off for a few days for Xmas after her shift, one Saturday Dec. 23. Great i said, why don't you swing by then. She said it wouldn't be until after 11 and i told her not to worry as i was off the next day and my roommates were all out of town. Perfect she purred into the phone.

To say the thought of taking Delilah to bed was in the back of my mind would have been a lie, it was much closer to the front. So that night, being the classy guy i was, i bought the booze she requested and grabbed a pizza. I sat and waited anxiously, doing a little last minute business, shuffling people out the door and trying not to get too fucked up in the process. Sometime after 11pm there was a knock on the door. Apparently she had hit the wrong buzzer and the gay couple who lived below let her in. She looked like sex with her pixie cut and short skirt, she shivered from the cold and i ushered her into the apartment and asked if she wanted a drink. I handed her the drink and we took a seat on the zebra and leopard print couch that my roomies and i had rescued from a curb back in October. There was one lamp on and white xmas lights that had been strung up around the living room (which of course never came down.)

It may not come as a surprise that the conversation did not last long. She was not wasting any time and as we smoked a joint she leaned over and said why don't you take this hit, took a pull, put the joint in in the ashtray, and was kissing me before i knew what happened. In fact never had i witnessed or been the object of such skill when it came to, for lack of a better word, seduction. She had maneuvered my cock out of my pants and into her mouth with such dexterity and professionalism that had i not been so presently occupied i would have stood and applauded. There is no need to go into the play by play but let's just say the zebra and leopard print couch needed to be cleaned up afterward. It was the beginning of a fine night.

Round one over we finished the joint and she stated she didn't need to be anywhere and i suggested she just stay over. Let it be said there are not many finer things in life than finishing a post coital joint with a beautiful, naked woman. She then led me down the hall to my bedroom where we fell onto my mattress on the floor. She put the stereo on softly. We rolled around until exhaustion finally took us both, passing out entangled in each other. The next morning started much like the night finished. It was a little after noon when she said she needed to get going. She stood in my room getting dressed smiling at me, i asked did she need any weed? she smiled and said no she just wanted to come over. She leaned over and kissed me and walked out the door. As i laid there listening to her shoes and the click of the door i stared at the ceiling, a content grin on my face, the sounds of xmas eve day seeping into my room. Merryfuckingchrismas indeed i thought, merryfuckingchristmas indeed.

Thursday, November 28, 2019

Looking out my window on Thanksgiving morning

As i stood over the sink and watched the squirrels and the birds, gazing at the branches now swaying gently in the breeze instead of bending over in the howl of yesterday, i thought to myself i need to remember to call my dad. Then it hit me that i couldn't. There was that moment, fleeting as it was, where he was there, in his apartment in Cleveland, cigarette and shit instant coffee, the television turned on after coming home from another graveyard shift. There was a moment when i was looking forward to our conversation... and then it was gone... and my mind settled back into the now. Then Stretch bounded down the steps hungry as usual and Disaster gave me a hug and said "Happy Thanksgiving, dad". I examined his recently busted up finger and kissed his head. Then i poured another cup of coffee and went back to that window.

Friday, November 8, 2019


David Berman hung himself in the first week of August. If you don't know who David Berman is i can only suggest you find out. He wrote more great lines in one song then most of us will write in a lifetime. dcb was that fucking good.

Way back when i used to have a radio show at good old Podunk U. i used to peruse the records and get stoned in the back room, a nice pair of headphones, a turntable, a window to clandestinely ogle the co-eds. Life was grand. I stumbled upon some great bands back then. The Silver Jews was not one of them, i stumbled upon them later, reading magazines that probably no longer exist.

For a decade or so i sort of forgot about dcb and the Silver Jews. He had packed it in in 2009. He wrote a letter that had most people worried that the next time you heard of him it would be an obit. He suffered from what he called un-treatable depression, he battled drug and alcohol abuse, he battled a father who was a lobbyist for the booze and tobacco lobbies. It was a father who all but disowned him, the guy could have been set for life if he just played the game his dad wanted him to but he didn't. He bounced around, was practically homeless, at one point living above the Drag City records offices in an apartment they let him stay in. His marriage of twenty years dissolved. Then out of nowhere came a new record.

David Berman is not the greatest singer or guitar player but his songs will knock the wind right out of you. They are a strange mix of bleak and uplifting and specific but not so much that one can't apply their own meaning to it and really that's what we want from music most of the time, we want to relate it to our own lives, to soundtrack it as i say. His new band was called Purple Mountains and the record the same, as the Kid said, listening to it can sometimes feel akin to watching a snuff film. It was a goodbye. There can be no blame placed anywhere or on anyone but it's hard to imagine the people who heard it before it's release not asking him if he was going to be okay. There are some songs on this record i relate to so well it would be worrisome if not for the fact i don't suffer from depression and more just the general melancholia of a sometimes delicate soul. David was torn up when his wife and he split. Rest assured that would not be my reaction to the same event.

And so three days before his tour David Berman hung himself.

I had been listening to the Purple Mountains record before that but it took on a whole new meaning after the news broke. I dug back into the Silver Jews catalog and was reminded of just how fucking brilliant this guy was with words. I tend to like to remember him by looking at the back of the Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea cover, a smiling and happy guy playing music and singing with his wife and band. Now the music and his book of poems are all we have left. Sadly that'll have to be enough. (this one here might be my favorite, it hits home a little too close sometimes but good lord god damn is it a great fucking song.)

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Raz Blues Leaf Edition

I'm stoned and eating Boo-Berry on a Sunday night, the back aching and the eyesight crawling towards a set of prescription lenses. There is no rhyme or reason to sit and toil in front of a blinking cursor when the only reward will be dragging the garbage cans down to the curb come dusk. If the cul-de-sac is my life then i am over halfway round the fucking thing and wandering aimlessly towards the void. These day i spend a lot of time admiring the patterns of leaves, weed and shrooms can do that to you. Not a scrambled egg like the fucking commercial more what a psychonaut would call a moment of clarity. It'd be more clear if the damn eyes weren't so fuzzy but by this time of night i'm typing with the blast shield down. These days i also spend a lot of time looking up at the stars. In lieu of the ocean they're my second favorite thing to get lost in though when i can gaze at the ocean and the stars we make a notch in the book under "Banner Fucking Day." Toss in the leaves and one could accuse me of being a degenerate stoner. Why in Jah's name am i staring at leaves when there is shit to buy and product to consume? Here in Pennsyltucky they put a lot of stock in those leaves, a tourist attraction they are called. I don't know if i'd drive hours to see them but since i'm right fucking here i don't mind the view, even stumbled on the scientific shit that told me what chemical makes what leaf turn which color. Between bowls of Boo-Berry the weatherman can pull out some weird shit. My neighbor had a party last Friday. I didn't go. Instead i peaked out my windows like some perv and watched as people enjoyed themselves, dancing and laughing in the largest suburban home on the block. It was like watching Nat Geo Suburban edition, i was confused and amazed at the same time, i often dance in my house but i'm usually alone, i often sing songs to the neighborhood housewives (also alone) that are best left unspoken in what one would call polite company. The definition of the norm can only be defined by the abnormality of the subject in question but the subject in question has not shaved in a week. One need not worry about the razor or the cream when one is chronically unemployed or least as viewed by the red-blooded American males who zip up and down these tree-lined streets in high priced SUVs. There are no fitted shirts or Windsor knotted ties hiding in the back of my closet, there are no golf clubs in the garage, there is no talk of mergers or management and so therefore the cocktail and block party is a dangerous place for a man prone to reading philosophy and listening to records. I'm eyed suspiciously, as if those songs i sing have become top ten hits, where could this layabouts tongue or cock be hiding when Jim, George, and John are at their power lunch? But they should rest easy, it's hard to fuck their wives between laundry and lawn mowing, i am the indentured servant with a release date that drifts ever further out to sea, when they find me with a hatchet and s shovel in the backyard it will be much less sinister than it looks, just a tripping lad hacking away at the Pennsylvania Palms that grow like weeds but look like trees, the tripping lad apologizing to Mother Nature for his crimes as he hacks and digs and wipes his tears for his friends the trees, nuisance or not he feels more at home with them then in the company of the people who want them removed, as the chipmunks and squirrels and groundhogs stare in befuddled nonchalance at this wild-eyed man-child as the wind whispers secrets translated through the dying leaves, there is only now, there is only now, there is only now...

Sunday, September 29, 2019

The Mushroom Diaries Vol. 4

To paraphrase Tom Petty, the grazing is the hardest part. Grazing is the term i coined for my usual Wednesday when i follow along behind the Breadwinner as she peruses the aisles of commerce known as the retail shitholes of America. She is not the only one, there are numerous grazers all ambling and strolling and pondering the choices to be made among what amounts to the detritus of modern civilization. I am the dutiful and stupid oxen whose job it is to pull the cart and chew my cud while nodding occasionally in ascent to the knick-knacks and non-sense picked up and fondled by the Breadwinner. My reward for being such a fine and obedient ox is lunch, chosen from a list provided by the Breadwinner. I usually spend my time staring at the lights and secretly ogling the female shoppers while creating elaborate fantasies in my head. The entertainment helps kill the crushing boredom. The weirdo can not live on bread alone now can he? Of course there is also the mental tallying of the amount spent, as the oxen i have no say in this part, my part as i've stated is to push the cart and load and unload the car. All those years of schooling and i still can't shake the lumpen-prole life of manual labor.

The life of the world's hairiest soccer mom can get a bit hectic at times. Last Saturday there were three games on the slate, two for Disaster and one for Stretch. Disaster was getting his run out with the A team for the first time but of course the game coincided with Stretch playing an hour north and since Stretch was in the ER the week before with what we thought was another broken arm i kinda sorta needed to be there. The good news was that once that game was over i could jump on the freeway and fly down to the home field house and catch Disaster's second game. And so after making breakfast and sorting kits and filling water bottles and packing snacks, off i went. The Breadwinner, in a rare instance of doing something on her own, took Disaster to his first game and then waited for me to arrive for the second. That is where the trouble starts.

In a day spent running around food sometimes gets put on the back burner. Then of course comes the "hangry". I've cultivated the ability to do a lot while not eating, as long as i can keep myself hydrated i can go long stretches between food. Stretch is a newly minted teenager with an appetite that never stops. The Breadwinner often comments on why does he need to eat so much but then again the Breadwinner isn't going to grow up to be 6'4 or taller. So i mentioned a certain burger joint on the way home that the boyos both like but apparently the Breadwinner disdains more than i knew. Thus the diatribe started that if "we" wanted that then i could pony up for it because she wasn't "spending her money" on something she didn't like. The amount of restraint it took not to bellow "you fucking twat!!!" could only be attributed to some new found discipline or a more philosophical phase ala Jules Winfield. I calmly explained that it wasn't for me and it was just a suggestion seeing the growing boys might be hungry after an afternoon of the football. She continued in her vein of "not spending her money" while Stretch looked at me in bewilderment. I didn't want to tell the poor kid this was about more than just cheeseburgers.

The game over, the shit kept flying into the fan as both boyos wanted to ride home with me but since the Breadwinner didn't want to drive home alone Stretch finally acquiesced and left with the boss. On the way home Disaster and i talked about his game but there was a melancholy that hung about my dome, grey clouds of sadness for things gone awry and for the people who would ultimately suffer the most when it all shook out.

There are days to when the mushroom is the medicine and this was one of those days. The mind needed a good stretch and clean out and so after i got the boyos settled i slipped off into the downstairs bathroom where i locked the door and proceeded to take three healthy pinches of fungus washed down with water. I kissed the boyos on the head and made my way two blocks to the clubhouse where i sat on my friend's couch and let the magic wash over me, wash away the anger and frustration, taking a puff occasionally from the peace pipe, drinking water, gazing at various college football games while discussing the state of the shit show both at home and abroad. It was a decompression from the mess that can only loosely be called a quasi-meaningful relationship. Later that night, in my driveway i gazed up at the stars, i listened to the numerous insects doing all those nocturnal insect things. I thought of the immense love i had for those boyos. I thought of a lot of things in the quiet of a sleeping neighborhood. I watched a mother deer and her two fawns walk out of the woods, stop and gaze at me, and then move lazily on. Looking back at those stars i knew this was the hard part, someday none of this would matter, someday i would not exist... and that would be easy.

Monday, September 23, 2019

An Epilogue

In those days inhabiting my father's shadow on the west side of my hometown there was a flickering, not a full blown recognition but a knowing deep down that this would be it. That this would be the goodbye to the city i was born in, that after many years of calling it home, knowing it would always be home, that it would be home no more. The fact was i hadn't lived there in many moons, the fact was that my home was somewhere else now but we humans need some form of closure and if we don't get it there festers a wound that gnaws and burns and bothers until we can somehow get the medicine we need. And so in the days that turned into weeks of me occupying my father's apartment it was there. A melancholy and a joy of knowing that this was going to be goodbye and that it was the right time and the right place for that goodbye. The person i loved most in this city, the person that tied me to the place, would soon be gone, there was nothing that was going to stop the inevitable and while i drove through streets that had formed and shaped the young kid who would become a man i no longer chased the ghosts but bid them farewell, i blew kisses and embraced them as i watched them sink into the sediment.

I grew up with a wind off the lake, sometimes icy and cold, sometimes warm and suffocating. Moving south and east i spent the next few decades between two rivers that flowed into one, the one named after my home state. The Rust Belt is stuck in the loops of some beaten and battered work pants, i spent the early years in my adopted city running the hoods between the Allegheny and the Mon, now just south of it all i pass the point where the three rivers meet, and though i've grown fond of those rivers i often still yearn for that lake. I miss the sound of those freshwater waves and a horizon that fades into blue waters.

The final gift my father gave me was four weeks. A strange gift i know but it was a gift of immense importance to his often wayward son. It was more than secrets revealed and questions answered. It was a chance to inhabit a world so familiar but grown so foreign. A chance to walk streets, a chance to sit on a beaten and broken down leather couch, to climb the creaking wooden steps and study the chipped grey paint. And it was more than that. It was things and thoughts and feelings that our simple and childlike language cannot yet define, cannot not yet explain or describe. What is blue sky to the blind man? what is water to the fish? there are things that just are to each and every one of us and to each and every one of us they belong, they are the same and they are not but they are ours and i would cite my fellow Ohioan Robert Pollard and describe them as the things that i will keep. Not things or possessions but things possessed, some might say cherished, intangible things that could never be held for to hold them would be to have them slip from our grasps, physical, metaphysical or otherwise.

Looking into a mirror i see a young man's face grown older, there are lines and less hair and glasses to help him read the fine print he could once read in the dark. Humans love patterns and in those weeks there were the seeds of a life planted to temporarily take the place of a tree that was dying, there were days and nights spent wandering and driving, composing love letters to the places grown old or wiped away, to girls who were now women who had moved away or never left, raising kids or chasing careers, we me them, the fading Polaroids left in a box in a damp and dank West Side basement, you can't put your arms around a memory is what Johnny Thunders said and it's probably best that we can't, it serves no purpose but those weeks of watching the chapters fade and blur encapsulated a beauty, like standing near that lake in the pitch dark night and hearing the water and the wind knowing it's there in the invisible darkness and understanding how fleeting it all is and how once you leave you'll never see that place again, a place filled with people and sights and sounds and smells, like the noise and air on a spring night walking Madison Ave, and as you close that book filled with those pictures found in that basement there will be a sigh and a sly smile that you'll never see it or them again and that it is okay because you have and there is nothing left to give or take except the beauty and the love of those things we will keep, those things we can't define nor should we try.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

A History of Addiction

I was never going to be an alcoholic. I'm just too fucking lazy. Being a drunk takes work and if there's one thing i'm averse to it's that word. There is a certain amount of discipline and drive when it comes to drinking and i just don't have it. Booze has always been the sidekick to various other substances, the accoutrement to the main course. So while booze has always been invited to the party it was more like that quiet friend who crashes on your couch, you don't really realize they're there but yet there they are.

Now had Tricky Dick Nixon rolled out some fancy add campaign like his boy Dutch Reagan did a few years later maybe this post wouldn't exist and maybe mom and dad would have hid that gas can in the garage so that Junior here wouldn't have discovered just how lovely it smells and how lightheaded it can make you. Hell i was young and didn't realize i was killing brain cells but i quite enjoyed it. Somehow i even realized i should keep the whole gas huffing thing to myself so as not to arouse suspicion or get in trouble. The subconscious works in mysterious ways.

A few years after i learned gas huffing was an interesting hobby i discovered the joys of wanking. One could say i was addicted to it but let's just face the facts about teenage boys... they jerk off.. a lot. There are two types of men in this world, those that claim not to jerk off and those that lie about not jerking off. Then of course came the introduction to the female form and my relentless pursuit of it. In my youth i fooled more than my fair share of parents, mother's being particularly smitten, with my friendly ways and utter mastery at the art of bullshit. I knew what they wanted to hear and while the daddies remained more skeptical of my intentions usually even they were won over eventually. Until of course i cheated on their daughter with her best friend. Those guys always should have gone with their gut i tell you. Now as i got older one could say i was a borderline sex addict but i just prefer to think i liked to fuck a lot. Now of course i realize that one of the largest obstacles any male faces in their lives is the ability to overcome their own penis. For the most part they never do, sometimes i think i've made great strides in that area and other times not so much. But alas aren't we all works in progress?

Then of course there were the very brief and short dalliances with pcp and then the unfortunate knowledge of learning how to rock up your own coke but those were short stints though i'm sure my body would have preferred no stints at all. The dust was more like a crash course to see how much i could scramble my brain and there is a whole post from years back to devoted to smoking rock and wanking so there's no need to delve too deep here. My old friend the Engineer once remarked at how i seemed to have this innate ability to quit shit before it got out of hand. He was wrong of course and while i did give that impression usually it was a moment of clarity in a drug addled and drunken haze that made me realize it was time to kick shit. When the impending doom crept in the dust was done and that little episode of thinking the ticker was about to burst at good old Hippy Jack's made me quickly forget the recipe for homemade rock.

Now one might think that would be last time i'd ever see that fine white powder again but alas sometimes the universe looks you squarely in the eye and kicks you firmly in the nuts. Let's just say that shortly after making things legal with the old Breadwinner things went pear-shaped quick fast. In order to ease the mental anguish, pain, what have you, i was hanging at the lowest place i could find, a mini-mart that sold beer ( a rarity in Pennsyltucky in those days), it was home to the halfway house crowd, a veritable island of misfit toys all drinking 75 cent cans of malt liquor while staring at a shitty little telly usually turned to the local news. One could often smell the familiar scent of crack wafting from the bathroom and one fine day i met a lad who just so happened to have the skyline of Pittsburgh tattooed across his belly. Somehow the talk turned to powder and pills and weed and since i was feeling like a mutt that had been kicked in the face, when he told me his cousin got some decent blow i placed an order. That slope wasn't just slick it was treacherous. When one is examining how fucked their life has become, has a suitcase full of money and access to blow, things usually don't turn out so well. Of course it always starts so innocent but before i knew it i had Cousin Franco on speed dial with a damn near standing order for an 8-ball every Friday night. There were points where i couldn't hit the bar for a few pints on a Tuesday without hitting him up for a gram. Needless to say a few years later and i had managed to piss away a healthy chunk of illicit cash, the one time genius weed dealer of North Oakland was now nothing more than a pathetic coke head who people would do anything to not be cornered by in the pub so he could spill his tales of woe in a splattering of verbal diarrhea between trips to the can to key up in the stall. And yet one day i said that's it and never touched it again.

But alas our hero was not out of the woods yet, there were other things to find and find them he did. In the years that Big Pharma was pushing it's pain relief one could very easily find those little sweeties in every local bar. Seems there was no end to people being prescribed opiates and soon people realized they had more than they needed or could get so many they could turn a nice little profit. Soon the little pills of all shapes and sizes, percs and vikes and oxys, were easily and readily available and usually in bulk. There is a few years of the lounge that were written under the lovely haze of opiates and coffee. The routine usually involved downing a pill and then walking to the coffee shop a few blocks away, scoring a concoction of steamed milk to help with the stomach and then walking back while the pill kicked in. The walk would stimulate the mind and kick in the drugs so i could come in and sit quietly at the typer and twiddle away. Luckily for me i had a rather strange respect for the opium poppy and understood it's power, much more than i had for those coca leaves, and so i'd use the reduction method ala Bill Burroughs to attempt to periodically take breaks which usually resulted in a finale of a rather sleepless night while dealing with a slight to mild case of the creepy crawlies/ heebie-jeebies. When the connections finally started to dry up with the "get tough on addicts" and prosecution of docs writing too many scripts there was one final reduction method and a ride off into the sunset.

The addictive personality will always find something though and i think the trick is to find something that may be a bit less harmful and so as the Big World Bank Machine was set to close i decided i wanted to get into some kind of shape, to be able to chase the boyos and not be the daddio in the park panting on the park bench. And so the workouts started, of course i overdid  it to the point i ended  up with back spasms down the road. My ability to push and torture myself being both the proverbial blessing and curse. I've gone through various forms of physical fitness regimens but have since settled on swimming, something that is excellent for the back and the creaky knees and ankles of an ex-hooper/warehouse grunt. Add to the mix my new found love of smoothies and at least these days i'm addicted to something that isn't supposed to kill me until of course one reads the statistics of how many people kick it while working out. I don't much worry about it, having gone full organic between the herb and the fungus i've discovered a discipline i never really realized i had. Having kicked all the nasty shit i'm now hooked on raw fucking oats and flax seed, bananas and berries and Greek fucking yogurt. I've gone full Mark Renton and have chosen life or something like it. Being addicted to reading and having gone down the rabbit hole of some half-assed Eastern mysticism mixed with my own off-kilter philosophical musings i sit here today laughing like the Buddha of suburbia understanding the present informs the past much more than vice-versa. Now it's time to change the laundry.