Puissance

Dear Diary,

As the last residual traces of a long day with a hazy ending watching Good Night and Good Luck, about the McCarthy witch hunts, all shot in black and white. Good movie.

I'm out of everything and somewhat fatigued after shifting some God-awful transit van seat from one area of the house, having to take the door handles off. Thankfully, this excused me from having to give a guitar lesson.

I am out of everything, breath, of life, killing yourself to live. It's been three days on the wagon already, and the morrow brings... joy. In the time it takes to mooch down there, Maxy Waxy will have to seek out the battered head brew, the devils own drink. Not 'the special stuff' nay, that be to rare-a victual to seek an find, mine own taste weighs in at only eight degrees. Aye.

Shame I've been roped into helping out with more housework. Then it's supposedly the second round of elections deciding which persons image-set we're gonna use for the group-work essay. I think the power is starting to go to my head a little bit. Absolutely corrupted by way of completely disregarding another students wishes with regard to how exactly we go about selecting which objects we are to write about. I am nearly there with the second book. Almost. Back to the grind.

Stay On the Flex,

Max-out.