My world is creaking. It is stretching open. I’m the forever wakefulness of a mess. I am the sun of disaster. Call me Uncle Crinky. I’m not here to be taught a lesson, and I’m not here to be shown how to dance. Manwell couldn’t have said it any better: I live to write, and I write to live.

I know who I’m not following anymore. There have been lines drawn in the sand, and there are bugs in the bedchamber whom I’ve just got to keep in my sphere.

Maybe I’m a spoiled brat. My cousin may have gotten it right when he called me “Richy Rich.” I have white privilege, and I’ve got balls. I don’t want to be nagged about my mind any longer. I’m leaving you in the dust until I hear otherwise. It’s good for me. This is cathartic.

We are all dying, and I don’t have the time or energy to come for you all. What I do, I do for my daughter, so I don’t care what you think. I’m getting back into the flow, and I’m getting better at it. I have to admit that I’m finding myself more impressed with myself than I have been for the last little while. A little more dedication. A little more stick-to-itiveness. A little less complaining. More to show for myself; that’s for sure.


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