Leaving The Seat Up was in some other life, clearly… or perhaps not so clearly, unless you’re me and thereby able to see the vast difference in the interior decoration of my newly renovated cranial habitat.

The scum of crankiness which floated then upon the stagnant little backwater of daily life seems to have been scooped off the pool, and fed to the compost heap. The standard of self-medication, er, abuse, having been done away with, the liver shown a little clemency, the moodiness seems to have followed suit.

It was an interesting little sojourn, the bumpy ride on The Wagon that seems to have landed me in this bloody positive frame of mind. I find Wagon rides are largely fucking uncomfortable, as a mode of transport – in fact the last week or so, having fallen off said Wagon, has been a far more balanced experience. Not overly surprising really though is it?Although I must say that I was a little surprised at which deprivations caused the most grief.

Caffeine was far smoother than I’d have thought (after the first 24 hours, naturally), especially given just how very very long I have been doping myself up with said stimulant. I have a rather nasty little confession to make here actually… I say caffeine deprivation, rather than coffee, as I have gone and crapped on my own long held, and viciously defended principles on the nature of decaf. Though in my own defence I feel compelled to inform all and sundry that the dread decaf in question is actually fucking good – in fact very nearly indistinguishable from it’s Mandhelings neighbour.

Anyhoo, I digress (as is my wont), and strangely enough the little scenic detours through Quitville, and Sobertown were not really that bad either. As usual (and as to be expected) there followed a few days of the Crankies after the removal of tobacco from my diet, but I handled them in a much more composed and adult fashion than my previous attempts, if I do say so myself.

But by God, the sugar! More tired, grumpy, and generally soulless I cannot remember having felt than when I attempted to throw the company of Sucrose to the side of the Road to Detoxification… never again I swear it… I’ll end up a fucking doughhnut before I go through that again… hmm… well maybe not… I am, after all, a victim of the spurious hegemonic notion that if you don’t have a physique like Dirty Brad Pitt, well, you just ain’t a man…

Fuck! I have digressed into my own bullshit so far that I can’t even remember what my original point was going to be…

I think I’ll just end with the statement that I am in LOVE with Hank Moody.

Oh, and I believe the fact that my life is largely in the same state as his (minus, unfortunately, the publishing accolades – and, fortunately, the teenage daughter – and, of course, I am not drowning in a sea of pointless pussy, but I am a little ambivalent about this, at least in my capacity as a male. As a person, I am probably quite thankful really).

And clearly this is to blame for my current resurgence of writing inspiration… and I don’t mean writing this drivel, I mean real writing…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on February 18th, 2010.

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