|Glutonian rancor . . .
||[Feb. 27th, 2015|09:57 am]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
. . . has, at times, driven me as sad as it has mad. There's no good way to predict which way the pieces of your soul will fly when you're shattered like that. People want to blame someone, but it's like being angry with God because this raindrop fell on your parka instead of that raindrop over there. The bottom of the barrel is nearly worn through, having yielded more splinters than applesauce for the last however many months. You might rather die, but you realize you'll take the seeds of your muttering with you wherever you go and, unless you get clean before you leave, the same crap will just crop up wherever you you end up. You will have, for all practical purposes, gone nowhere. All going is for naught until you've gone without your luggage. Going with luggage is never having gone.