The Christmas tree is up but not decorated. I couldn’t muster the energy. Young lovers pose for all the world to see, and I want to tell them it’s all it’s cracked up to be, yet that would be lying. The beauty of love is when everything falls apart and the truth inevitably outs. The real truth, not those empty nothings you utter because you’re glad of the distraction; because you’ve proudly become like everyone else. It’s all about the dirty truth, the kind that paints you as you really are. Every blemish. Every scar. It’s about being broken and never wanting to be repaired. It’s about falling and staying perfectly still. Observe the world from someplace you never thought possible. It takes balls to exist on the outside, but once you take the plunge, there’s no going back. Relish every breath, and adore every second you spend apart from those too weak to believe in anything other than the hive. As Carol singers gather at the front door, I watch them from the upstairs window. I’m ashamed at my reluctance at not wanting to give them money, but it’s more about not wanting the audience. That’s the beauty of writing; you can have an audience yet not have to deal with people in the flesh. I distrust nearly everyone. There’s so much insincerity you have to put up with. So many games. Now and again I’ll let someone in, but only if they’re not chasing some fucking rainbow they once saw in a magazine. Sit with me and have a beer. Maybe even a cigarette too if it floats your boat. Speak words that bring you down, and belittle yourself freely. Don’t worry, I’ll outdo everything you can offer. I’m the king of losers, and I wear the badge with pride. It’s an honorary title, one that comes from a lifetime of making mistakes. Perfection is boring; normality a crime against Dionysus. The worst thing you can ever do in life is trying to fit in. If you do, it’ll ruin you. Just you see.