I am not really going to be a deadbeat.
For those of you concerned. Or even still reading this mess. I’m not a deadbeat, but I play one in real life. That’s just how others would refer to me, I think. I am not actively exchanging my time for money; therefore, I am stealing the time of others in order to get by. This reductionist argument rests on a premise of a limited quantity of time . . .
Ahem.
I’ve been writing.
Not writing, but writing. Thinking critically without the recording-of-it part. I haven’t been able to get the recording-of-it part down lately. I guess it is what they would call writer’s block. Staring at the blank page. But the page is no longer blank. And it blinks at me. Buzzes with this weird blue light in the darkness of my room. Tabs and windows and portals to other worlds. Other lives. Other personas. Temptation for checking.
Petroleum for an obsessive-compulsive.
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