There’s toast and eggs and a few cigarettes and painkillers to ease the aching of my bones, and out of one eye I see you, and out of the other, a wall splashed with grease and other such muck. There’s a spider on the ceiling, and in the dining room, a bird in a cage that’s ill. Maybe dying, I’m not sure. Leaning back in the chair, I suck down a lungful of smoke and hold my breath while nodding my head to the music that’s playing. It’s something by Sufjan Stevens, but fuck if I know what. Out of boredom, I go upstairs and into the bathroom. Pulling down my trousers and boxers, I go for a piss, then when I’m done, I trim my pubic hair with a pair of clippers I purchased solely with this type of job in mind. Pinching the end of my dick with my left hand, I lift it up and go to work with the clippers held in my right. It’s not too bad down there, but the area between my balls and arsehole is a bit rough, and when the hairs are snipped and fall to the floor between my feet, I feel a lot better. Looking down at my little man, he appears healthier than he did before, and for a second my spirits are momentarily raised. Sweeping up the hairs with some tissue paper, I scrunch them up and flush it all away. And then it’s writing and editing and writing and editing and even though the entire day is dedicated to words I’m still behind with everything. There are so many emails and messages I have to reply to, but every time I take a break from either the blog or the journal, all I can do is go into the kitchen and drink tea while smoking a cigarette. Being in tune with my emotions is a draining affair. Makes me feel like a druggy on some nauseating comedown where blood is reduced to that of sludge. To ease my woes, I make myself another cup of tea until it’s time to get going again with tapping my troubled vein of creation. I dread thinking about how this will continue for the rest of my life, but I’m so used to it by now that it’s almost laughable. Almost.