Something pops into my head, I move toward the keyboard and it is gone.
Like a fart in the wind.
I thought the guy played Warden Norton was dead. I was surprised to learn yesterday that he is still very much alive.
This is my last weekend off until October. Next weekend we start back up on the boat. Weehoo!
That sentence took me another five minutes to write.
I woke singing a Christmas song, which I can no longer recall, because some kid came in yesterday and checked out a Christmas book. He does it every single week.
His mom's just glad he reads.
Depression killed my old man.
I worry about the people in my life who have to deal with that shit.
It's not as simple as saying, hey, if you need to talk I'm here.
I mean, I say that to all of my friends, but depression - the clinically diagnosable kind - takes more than just a friendly ear.
At best I feel like I am a lifesaver tossed into the sea hoping my friend will grab hold and hang on until better people than I can actually get them back in the boat.
I'm just rambling now.
Titty sprinkles or whatever.