Finally gotten around to writing. The mental team of insane clown writers has been too tired to critique anything, and I’ve successfully logged my brain into overdrive for so long that I don’t know how to do just one thing. I mean there’s really not much for me to do. Move is over. Things are changed and working. Only thing that I have to adapt to is working. And who doesn’t have to adapt to working. Managed to scribble a few new thoughts here and there, but it’s mostly crap (it’s all crap).
Have a thousand ideas and not a finger to get them started. Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve gotten a lot of them started, I just have yet to… you know… complete one. Have all these new ideas for old works, and all of these new ideas for new works but I don’t know where to go or start or — Scotch.
Nothing can save the mind like a good, old fashioned, three-finger glass of single malt Scotch (you capitalize the proper names – like God. You’ll get that one eventually.)
Anyway, off to the mental races and the hand torture chambers known as pen and paper. Maybe I’ll type a little more if I get the chance to think a little harder about the Doc. Maybe the Doc can put my Scotch down and open his mouth to tell me what the hell happened to him so I can put it on paper. Maybe the Doc needs a good smack in the face with a baseball bat before I lose my shit thanks to him not speaking. And maybe the Doc will stare at me with a death glare cold enough to freeze the blood of Cthulhu. Maybe I don’t mess with the Doc and we both have a drink and he talks when he’s ready.
Yeah, that one sounds like the best chance of survival.