You ever open up your website and there's like, more cobwebs than not cobwebs? And then you inhale some of the cobwebs when you're groping for the light switch, and you start coughing and a lot more cobwebs fall on you and you wonder all of a sudden if 'cobweb spiders' are a thing, and then you fall on you ass and you're covered in cobwebs and you realize none of this actually happened, because web sites are just digital images on a screen, and however terrifying they might be, cobweb spiders can't live inside a flat screen? 
But if you're reading this on an old school CRT monitor, watch out. Cobweb spiders. 

Been editing my ass off lately. That's a clever way to tell you that bikini season is coming, and I've been hitting the squats hard. 
Wait, no, I'm talking about writing. I've been editing the book. Still on track to release the sequel sometime in the next several months, although given that advertising is a thing I have to do, I may delay the release in order to foster interest. Foment? Fricassee. I need to fricassee interest in my book. 

But I am editing. And the editing goes well. I just haven't been on my hustle, lately. Jay-Z would be disappointed in me. He might even say I've been knocking the hustle, even though presumably you can't do that. He might, however, tempter his disapproval with some recognition of my grind. Been grinding on this book like Beyonce grinds...the heads of screws down when she's refinishing her deck. She's got kids running barefoot, nobody wants their foot cut open on a rusty screw. Nobody is putting a ring on that. 

​This is the view from where I am:

This is where I live, now. This desk. Typical day is wake up, edit until I start having fantasies about running away and joining the Marine's Circus (they have SEALs) go to the gym to remind myself I live in a world populated by people who aren't just extensions of myself, then go to work and make those people drinks. Rinse, repeat. 

It's not surprising to me that I chose to do this. What surprises me is the degree to which I am compelled to do this. If I had done anything else, if I were a lawyer, or a sanitation worker, or a professional killer, I would still be telling myself stories in my head. I'm still doing it, even as I work on The Adventures of Gregory Samson, Space Explorer. I'm coming up with other stories, writing them down, putting them aside for later, like a squirrel hoarding nuts that fall out of his ears. 

That would be one confused, happy squirrel. I suppose that's me. A happy person, confused at their luck. 

I'll update this when I have more to say. In the meantime, my idiot twitter feed and utterly narcissistic Instagram feed will most likely remain idiotic and narcissistic, respectively, and sporadically amusing. 

Hemingway never had to run his own god damn twitter feed. 

I've done a strange thing...