Why it's been so quiet...

Bless me, Internet, for I have sinned.

It has been twenty-six days since my last confession.

And frankly, you probably don't want to know the details of exactly what I've been up to all this time. It's a whirl of hospitals and hot dusty fields, of midnight car trips and tequila, of pills and sunglasses and knives and ATM cards.

I spend a lot of time laughing. Don't fall into the trap of thinking that's a good thing.

I play the radio too loud. I execute brutally underhanded verbal assaults on unsuspecting waitresses. I burn, I pine, I perish. I tell a man that I'm going to stab him in the kidneys, and chuckle along with everyone who hears because I know that they'll never be able to say they had no warning if I actually do it.

Four days ago, I stuck a couple dozen tiny foil guitar-confettis all over my face using my own saliva as an adhesive.

Three days ago I made a phone call which may amount to throwing myself back under a bus.

Yesterday I body-blocked an entire ELT mission.

I am tired, but I don't really sleep. I am sick, but I don't really want to be well. I am lost, but I keep moving so that I can never be found.

Don't be alarmed, dearly beloved. This is par for the course. Making poor decisions is a habit, and acting in inexplicably bizarre ways is a trademark.

Calm down. All will be well.

It had better.

It has to, right?