I wrote this whole thing on my Blackberry. I’ve been so fucking lame about writing and JC is such a slave driver that I was able to fuck off for weeks. My fans nearly rioted.

I’m at my friends Mike and Megan’s house, fat from some wicked seitan and rice. My vegan soul satisfied, I’m buzzing to The New Lows‘ practice session. CD release show means extra practice. For me, it means a free meal and loss of hearing. Good times.

I’ve been struggling to be inspired to write. Nothing new really. It’s cyclical. My cycles are stretching for longer and longer periods. (Is writing better as a flowing but thought-through stream of conscious or should clever metaphors and witty reasoning, however contrived, define better writing? Guess which wave I’m riding. Seriously, that was not a clever metaphor.)

So here I am, Red Stripe and tree-powered, Jamaica fully represented in my white veins, trying to break out of a writing slump by trying something new. The keys are small, but I can still type fast. I’m dazed enough to not know yet if this sucks. I’m sure it can’t be worse than someone lifecasting.

Weird reference.

No doubt something is wrong. So little cursing. I think I’m too at ease. Even the Supreme Court ain’t lookin’ too bad these days. Sure, plenty’s fucked (yes!), but it’s not like the military kidnapped our president, tossed him in a helicopter and dropped him in Costa Rica. Honduras, represent!

So, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve lost my edge. I doubt it. It’s temporary. It better be. It will be. The band’s done practicing. My thumbs are tired of this. I’m glad to be back.