Current State: Tequila poured over two tap-water ice cubes. Avoiding the melt. An indecisive cigarette nearby.
It’s also humid here, but the air conditioning is so damn loud.
So, I’ll admit it’s been a while. Would “I’ve been living my life” suffice as an excuse? I’m sure you understand it’s harder to write when you’re happy. There’s less that feels like it has no where else to go.
“Writing as an act of survival.” There’s a thought.