It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?
Not even commenter spambots read these things anymore, so I guess it’s useful for what I need at the moment.

That last post? It was in my drafts. I don’t even remember writing it or when.

My memory is starting to go along with everything else. Aging… it’s pieces of you just going away bit by bit, isn’t it?

Things… have changed since the last time I’ve posted… and they haven’t changed at all.

I really haven’t written anything personal in years. Haven’t really wanted to, to be honest. The older I get, the less important it seems. Besides, I went back and read most of it. Man, I was pretty good at turning a phrase and evoking an image, but as the kids nowadays say “that’s so cringe”. So pompous, so pretentious, and most importantly, so unoriginal. Really embarrassing, y’know?

Now, I’m not doing so well. Not dying or anything. Well, no more than we all are, I suppose. It’s just I’m aging like milk. Yeah, who knew decades of poverty and bad habits would catch up to you, right? All the bad things in my life are still there, and now there’s a heap of new ones too! But hey, at least *real* *actual* physical health problems cured me of my hypochondria!

Some nice cold comfort is that the rest of the world seems hellbent on tearing itself apart right now. Crazy motherfucking times.

So anyways, I just needed a place and time to air out my demons. It helped in the past, doing this sort of thing. Only now, I don’t really need or expect an audience. All these old blogs are ghost towns, the rust belt of social media 1.0. Honestly, I’d rather have a more effective outlet. I had a really good one for awhile.

Chickens.

Yup. I had bunches of ’em. Raised orphan ferals too. Then the ‘Rona came, and I got evicted and now I live above the carport of a hoarders house. No yard, no chickens. I know a lot of people mock those people who replace the hole in their lives a family and kids would fill with pets, but really, if you’re broken, then they’re really good for healing that greivous wound inside you. Better than writing, better than career success, whatever the fuck that is. Every day I miss my chickens. Every day I feel less alive and more tired. The internet isn’t helping, but then I think everyone is kind of waking up to that poisoned chalice, but can’t do much more than some guy on the rez who knows how bad booze is for him, but is surrounded by a physical reality that is just too shitty to handle sober.

Yeah, so this is what I do now I guess. Vent online to no one. Maybe by accident, someday I will write something someone would actually want to read, but I doubt it. I was never that talented, and I what I did have, instead of practicing, I let rot.