What's up?

Jack Daniel's, that's what's up.

So you want to know how my week has gone, huh? To allow yourself a little bit of insight, take a look at the time and then the second sentence of this entry. Deduce, fucker.

By the way, my wrist is broken. Got a call the next morning. Whatever.

Even if I wanted to talk about it, I couldn't. It's just...I don't know. I can't seem to formulate a concrete assessment of the past week and, every time I try, I get really pissed off at myself.

Here. Read what I wrote in Cocoa Beach this weekend:

"Arrive just before 6am and my wrist has been fucked for not even 72 hours. I'm just getting used to the pain of the bones but this pain of the heart I'm not so sure about. It's the kind where each moment brings a different type and the intensity and unfamiliarity shocks you into a state that can only be calmed by excessive abuse of one's body. Hence the broken wrist. Hence the drinking. Hence the painkillers. Hence the drinking and the painkillers flowing through my bloodstream as one. U-N-I-T-Y."

Yeah, I'm a fucking idiot. I know that. In fact, because of my idiocy and the fact that I really don't trust myself, I'm going to cancel my doctors appointment for tomorrow. The last thing I need right now is more Vicodin.

I'm responsible!

I'm also very, very hungry and there's not a goddamn thing to eat in this house. Except maybe the chickens, but I'm a vegetarian so that doesn't really help me.

Fuck.

I'm going now.

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