No Matter Where You Go, There You Are.

    After weeks of working at a dive bar, six months living in a dinky two-bedroom apartment with a chick who goes by Strawberry but is legally named Amanda, and days of alternating between vegetables and take-out, rum and top-shelf bourbon with my roommate’s blues band and a crappy wannabe-musician who works in insurance, I wake up on a Monday in April, feeling very sick with a line of dried drool winding from my mouth to my jaw.

I want to publish something again. Soon. It should be a short story. I'd love to have it be an action piece with gratuitous violence. How often do I write those? Never.