It’s before coffee and after a heavy day of drinking. I am leaning a little towards bummer mode. Bummer mode is where I am, you guessed it, a bummer . . . Well, not so much, I’m still waking up, I don’t feel as bitchy as I profess to be. My state of mind is that of, “I’m never gonna drink again.” You and I both know I will, so let’s amend that thought, “I’ll never drink again . . . for two weeks.”

I have a wealth of homework to do. Math is a small handful of hours. English is where the fear lies. He assigned us a research paper a few weeks back, that paper will be due Dec 9, which is just around the corner. Make a nice thesis, research your topic, then write a seven page paper, All fine and good.

I, for whatever reasons, I am writing about how rebellion is human nature and necessary to society. Now, I’m not sure if you can tell or not so Ill point it out, that thesis is way too broad and ambitious. The minimum is a seven page paper, books could be written on the topic. I haven’t even picked out my research sources yet. I am in trouble.

The woman part of my life has weighed heavily this past week. She and I are on good terms but we struggle to be friendly. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no animosity there, where we seem to struggle is between friendly and too friendly. I’m inclined to think that a little more time apart is needed. The research paper should be excuse enough to do just that.

I think of art often and when I do it is with a tinge of heart ache. I haven’t drawn or written in a few months now. I’ve had little desire to, I regret to admit. I’d love to do me some art, write me some books, and carve out a legacy, but . . . but, real life demands things. When I say real life I allude mainly to money. I’m tired of living off of zero dollars. How I used to survive is any extra money I’d get I’d reinvest into the art biz, buying books, entry into shows, and publicity and when I’d run out, I’d be too busy trying to survive. It’s like trying to win a marathon by sprinting, when I’d get tired I’d stop to catch my breath, then sprint again for a few minutes; a terribly inefficient way to do business, or to live.

What I tell my heart is: I’ll return to art when things are more stable. The logic and gentleness in which I remind myself quiets the pangs for a time, but every once in a while when I least expect it, that art ache will come on strong, that ache will then squeeze my soul.

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