Naps

An unfortunate side-effect of quitting caffeine is that I need to nap a lot now, and for some reason unknown, I always drool when I nap. No idea why, except that that's what you see people doing in movies when they have an unplanned sleep happen. I don't like waking up to a wet cheek any more than cinema heroes, so why's it gotta happen to me? Makes me wanna brew up a batch of tea and take some Aderal.

There's something I miss sometimes, the hard edge of a good accelerant... and who doesn't? I think everyone likes cruising the front wave of their morning coffee, red bull, whatever shit you gotta do to make life a little less mundane. In that time there's so much potential, so many tangents of thought spinning out from your brain and into the wake of moments left behind you. It's the kind of vision that hurts for a reason, because if we could think that way all the time, some of us might just DO something with our lives.

As it stands, I'm content in my little college town, reading my little sci-fi books, and thinking about a time when I won't live here anymore. It's not that I hate Denton, Texas, it's just that I love so many other places more. Like Austin, or San Francisco. Portland. New York. Seattle. Anywhere but here. In those places I might never get booked for a DJ gig again (and who would care if I didn't) but at least I could find a like minded individual on a night out or at a book store. Here it's a valley of apathetic hipsters who can't get excited about anything for fear they might rip their jeans from jumping for joy. They certainly don't dance.

Maybe that's my problem. I haven't had a good, hard dance in a while. Every time I've gone to in Dallas has had me dancing for the sake of not letting everyone else around me soak up the space like tiny black holes. I want some floor pumping, four-on-the-floor, ear raping jams, and right now with my foot the way it is, I don't think I'd trust myself to dance if I even wanted to.

And there's the rub. I'm getting old, god dammit. My heel keeps tearing, right knee hurts constantly, and I still haven't written that book everyone keeps telling me I should, and nothing is inspiring me to do it except spending a lot of time by myself. For some reason the less I can talk to other people the more I want to write about them. Or create them. Sex, too. Apparently there's an inverse-proportion rule with how much sex someone who can write well should get.

...and when you look at pictures of Douglas Adams, that kinda makes sense (gods rest him).

-Sean