Fruitcake

Dear Diary,

Betwixt procrastination and getting royally sozzled before breakfast, the embarrassing visit from my folks, wasn't so On the Flex. I stood there, the resident family fruit-cake. Gawpy, goofy-looking, baked. Trancing out to the sunshine I had vacant eyes, like piss-holes in the snow. Bleary and bloodshot. Tiny pupils. I remember receiving a bag of food from mother, home-made brioch, my favourite.

I am supposed to be going to the gig today. After the jam at the Calcuttan hole, I last blogged from a bar, talking business with the boss. Very f-. Wasted. Sloshed. Boned. Outta there. Betwixt smokey-haze and strong scrumpy I manage to discern that I might be able to play today. I am thinking of bailing out. Harry lost his grandaughter (only a day old) it's a sad time for him, and he will no doubt need to channel his Catharsis moreso than I at the mo'. Anyway.

I have smoked my last roll-up. The tobacco and such are long since turned to dust. Ashen remnants from the clam-shell tray, curvēd upon the table. Still. Silent. Inert. Only a tiny trace remains, no more is the tobacco. Gone is mine good friend Henry. Alas, a sorry looking piece of paradise, hobbit-style, for the firing and consumption with good hearty fare, food, and green-tea with blueberry. I think I am going to try and give up smoking again. Hell! I've no choice now I've decided I'm not playing (ergo: getting paid) this evening.

Meanwhile, Back On the Flex. Max realizes that sloth is his enemy. His dæmon. Aye. N'owt to do but get myself together. Get that infernal paperwork out of the way, finish up the essay, and begin the next one early. Stay On the Flex Maxy. The housework won't wait. Nor will the garden. Then it's the jive band thang wi' me old-man. Lots on. Must try and focus. It's hard to see through the haze, malaise of misty pebble-dashed shores. A sunray upon an overgrown garden, full of trees, honeysuckle, and berry-bushes.

I am rambling on, wasted now. Stay On the Flex y'all, nevermind all the rest.

Max-out.