I am sick with lack of inspiration. Even the beloved sharpie has nothing to spew forth into the creative arena. My guitar case is collecting dust. I haven't baked in weeks. I am about half way through three books; none of which are really speaking to me. My ipod is living on 666 Shuffle Lane because I can't decide if I want Johnny Cash or Portishead and Moloko. I have no cadence these days to march toward battle with. Plus, although I fucking represent with some serious survival skills, I have no real immediate desire to march at all. Really I would like to just go for a couple days and let some of my vicious polorization dissolve. This is the second June in a row to find me in a state of discontent. I also feel like crap and would like for someone to please rub my belly.
Meh.
The end.
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