I’m hoping that this month will mark my return to the blog. Again, let me say hello to all of my faithful readers: Hi dad, Hi mom. March usually sucks in my neck of the woods; it’s wet, muddy, and grey. But even if it had been sunny, even if the tulips blanketed the landscape ahead of schedule, I wouldn’t have noticed. You see, I’ve been rather busy lately, what with visits to the therapist, the shrink, my life counselor Cindy, my yoga instructor, the bartender, my parole officer, and that weird guy in the alley behind O’Hara’s Bar & Grill who gives me green tablets shaped like peanuts. Currently I’m medicated, which makes the arduous process of waiting for the sweet release of death a relatively tolerable experience.
Anything new happen to me during my hiatus from the blog these past two months, you say? Not really. I still read voraciously on genocide and serial killers in my basement until the handful of Advil PM tablets kick in (usually washed down the gullet with a shot or three of Maker's Mark), and they usually don’t. Alas! I’m still traversing this Jammerthal as the lone wolf that I am, though sometimes I find myself running like a scared rabbit from the oppressive Calvinist God who haunts me to no end. Either way I’m urinating on the garden, and I mean “garden” here in the Voltairian sense. Heck, at least I feel alive when I’m urinating, for lately I fear that I have become a phantom, lacking substance and always living in the shadows. Once spring is well underway, I suspect I’ll have more fruitful endeavors to report. Until then, I’m sloshing through the black bile of March.
