Whoah. I just busted out 695 words of the master thesis. I can’t remember the last time I scribed a one, and that’s a sad state of affairs of which I’m sorry to admit, but rome didn’t get that extra bathroom and the sunroof over the library in a day, I mean, what canya say, I suck so thereby my job is to continue sucking? Nope, fuck that, gotta break the cycle of piling by the pilons. Oh yeah, so, um, yep, the 695 words. They were pretty effin rambling (big surprise) and probably repetitively catching up, so the final payoff may only be in my own mind, the driver seat internal dialogue, even if it does go literary platinum, but it feels good, and there were some nice lines, and I’m not not proud of it. And that feels nice. It hit me tonite that I need to write. I must. Not for money not for fame not for honus wagner cards or wagner records or free hamburgers at Arnolds. Fuck all that shit. No, because there is something bursting within me and it ain’t my colon, at least not right this minute, and not listening to it works for a while, but once that while hits the appropriate nonce or lack thereof, bacdafucup kids, and that’s good and bad, and the interesting thing is that the more I let him out the more ferocious he gets, and maximum ferocity tempered with just a salt dash of 321 contact style safety dance inspired operational manuals and I really do think I’m in business, but not the dinero kind, just the good ol fashioned bangin on a keyboard to hear the strokes and see the words and that magic feeling when you look at a sentence that just appeared or that is in the middle of appearing and you go “damn” and you think “how the fuck I come up with that” and you’ve impressed yourself, and yeah, you might be lying out every last one of your teeth to your ever most captive audience, but as long as you believe it, even for a second, then it’s a successful woolgathering of losses cut and definitions blurred, and the winner is all of humanity starting with you, yourself, and, uh, I. ok, now I really gotta go to sleep.