There’s rarely a time when I’m not wearing headphones while I’m masturbating, but I have to be careful not to make too much noise, and I can’t stay up too late, all because I have to be kind to my wife. I was lying next to her in the bed but had to get up, pleading with her silently to let me go and do the things The Lord commands. Winter storm Olympia on its way. I am a broke bombshell. I have not received much popular acclaim for all that I have done. Most literary critics are crack pots living a shit existence. Everything as a continuous work in progress. I just work on whatever I can and go like water. How many of us are trying to prove a point? I usually come out and state for the record that it’s the truth. They’re going to send me back to work. Your day job and your career are two different things. I like working at my career, but I do not like working at my day job. It’s possible that I don’t even have a career. You could call me a white man with a beard just thinking about things. What even is the point? Why are we even alive?