Bring me back a dog.
My hands don't work the way they used to.
Then again, nothing is really what it used to be. It's astounding, overwhelming, the difference that a few years can make in your life.
I used to drink and write. drink and write. drink and write. Now I'm just drunk or dreaming. It rarely comes out on paper anymore (or through text, whatever, I'm really not that much of a computer kind of guy).
I tried so hard not to be my father's son but I've been following in his footsteps the entire time.
I don't know where I'm going with this, really. I'm just writing because there was this inclination to do so. Moments of clarity through fog.
My hands don't feel the same.
I don't have a place to call home anymore and the places I once thought of that way are long gone. Even James has a little less room for me in his life. I know Dom doesn't want me there and I guess I don't blame him for wanting my drunk and unruly stoner ass out of his house.
There's this distance, I guess, is what I'm saying. I don't know where I'm going anymore. I don't know what I want. I used to have these ideas, goals, but they've all drowned in a sea of bottles and a smokey haze.
I am listless and without direction.
These south paws don't work the way they used to.