Bacchus

Over the past month, going to Canada and then returning to RagnaROK, I've had some pretty rough jet lag. We got back a week ago today, yet still I find myself waking up in the middle of the night. This isn't a huge problem, because I'm still unemployed (and handsome), and I get a kick out of having seolleontang at 5 a.m. Also, I have a newfound love for coffee; I've been drinking at least two cups of that shit every "morning," black and bitter like my charred heart.

My point? You should know by now that I rarely attempt to make one. This is especially true this morning, as I'm jittery like Bobcat Goldthwait on a coke binge, my muse screaming, "Write something, asshole!" and me, with nothing better to do before the sun rises, obediently acquiescing. I'm just the conduit, folks.

I can drink a prodigious amount of booze and still remain relatively normal, but fill me with two cups of joe and my needle starts skipping frantically. (Also, I dream fast.) I'm filled with an impotent euphoria in that I'm bursting with a creative sense of something -- I just don't know where to direct it. Yes, caffeine turns me into a hyperactive problem child.

Maybe I need to grab a bite and sit down with a good book (or, failing that, grab a bite and tuck into Stephen King's so-far underwhelming Just After Sunset). Maybe I'll take my dog for a walk. Or maybe I'll remain in coffee-induced stasis until 10 a.m., when my new television arrives. It's been a long, harrowing journey for me to get to this new television, and, given the circumstances, I hope my enthusiasm for it can be forgiven and not viewed as materialistic vapidity. Just know that, in a few hours, I'm going to watch the shit out of that fucker.

Life is a wheel.