I'm feeling better today, but I still haven't had a haircut. The hungover aftermath of combining ephedrine, alcohol, and marijuana leaves me in a bizarre and bitter introspective funk. It's really very ugly, as you can read in the above entry. While the feelings were and are genuine, I am not prone to such gothic wailing most of the time.

I'm reading The Proud Highway, a collection of Hunter S. Thompson letters from when he was a young man about my age. There are several thoughts about the differences between those who limp through life looking for comfortable resting places, and those who take risks and truly live. I've always wanted to be one of the adventurous spirits, but that 'll take some prodding and stretching, as by nature my habits are those of the great swarm of mediocres. I don't mean to slight the simple life of making ends meet, raising a family, and holding down the fort, because I respect and value that greatly. It's just that I'm conceited enough to consider that I may deserve something more interesting. Am I capable or daring enough, though? Confidence can either be learned or conjured, and I am one that must conjure it out of the chilly air.

I have to keep looking around the corners for those glimmers that'll lead me down yellow brick roads. The notions of writing fiction and sculpting monstrosities have brought me closest to the path I need to walk. I will either be creative, productive, and happy, or stifled, bored, and disgruntled by an office & boss.
2:01 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm