Black tea and bouncing from thoughts that have nothing to do with each other. I’m signing off but not in a way that would make any sense because you see, I still have to write. But this whole idea of discipline and critical thinking shuts me right down. The idea of networking and pretending this whole thing is some professional endeavor is really tinkering my fairy. And maybe if I wanted this as bad as I used to want to save my mom I’d stick it out but as these days drone on none of this really matters anymore. Do you know what I want, to support a family. To see the world and this, this just doesn’t fill that void for me. Well, come to find out the sky never touches earth. So this void will have an unrequited love for me until the day I die. Yes, I love fairs and cotton candy and shirt skirts with big boobies. And a man with a nice smile and a nice set of words to go with it. Earth in my belly and acorns falling from the trees straight into my nappy hair. Even views that make my belly ache turn me right side in. But this writing thing is the most infuriating process with no hope. It’s lonely and it’s cursed me and its haunted me since I was a child. Even though I never wrote and never planned to, not in this manor. I thought of it more like crocheting a scarf. Or like those movies of Leonardo Da Vinci in Ever After or Jackson Pollock. Or Murder She Wrote. This though, this is not what I thought. And so do I want this? No, no I do not.