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And, as if magic white dust had whooshed away a whole month, it became December, where upon the first of the day the wind and rain and clouds did decree, “Here I shall dump one fucking foot of powdery shit on your whole parade, you’re welcome”. And it was so, and it was accepted, but not that good.

I spent the month of November not writing, while trying to create a business for myself that is centered around … writing. Funny how that works. I also drank many cans of lager and gained ten pounds to sit at a nice buck ninety-five, a great big bushy beard! and a beach ball. So, typical November.

This December will be different than the last decembers I can remember, as I’ve got at least 40 girls whirling about in the breeze in the next room over, with the next batch ready for their dresses and placemats whenever I can afford them. Which will need to be soon, as I don’t even think 40 will fill out the room, and I still have the other room that’s more than twice as large to fill out as well, so I can get the fucking fuck out of this fucking place. If I line my ducks up in a row properly, and actually take care of them this time around instead of letting them linger on in sacrificial neglect like previous rounds, then I should be onto something. Perhaps even an output that will get me out of this place within three months. That’s the plan. Two rooms should be more than adequate. I think it will take around 160 to do the whole job right. We’ll see. It depends on how big and fast I can train them up. I’ve got about a third of them in their dresses, it’s why my hands are all dirty and the air is sparkly. It’s been what I’ve been doing for the last few hours since I didn’t want to do nothing else much of progress and I didn’t want to do nothing and I didn’t want to sleep, and it needed to be done. Took 20 minutes out for a freewrite since it was almost midnight. Get the words out for the day. It’s so.

I know the answers, but the work doesn’t seem worth it. The results don’t seem worth it. None of the targets are appealing any more. That’s been the problem for a while, for so long I can’t remember, but I’ve got some old journals right here next to me and Gary that we could flip through and you’d find me, 10 15 20 years ago, writing about the same stuck shit, of why I can’t figure out how to put my one goddamned foot in front of the other goddamned foot in a fashionable or realistic pattern.

Nihilistic suicide.