Leaving in a minute to get son.  Second coffee cup, the stuff Mom and Dad bought me

for birthday.  And this shit is STRONG.  I feel like I could write a whole collection of short pieces right now and bind it and start selling, changing things forever, getting myself a car, one that I want to drive, and that small house in Monterey or Carmel.

Little pages on me at all times… pen to paper.  Be a real fucking writer, not one of those blogger idiots that “write” “notes” in their phone and forget about it.  Use to be me, but here meet the new me.

Nice to meet you.