I don't think waxing nostalgic about drinking scotch in seedy go-go bars while a cute young Eastern Bloc babe sits on my lap is going to fulfill my daily creativity quota anymore. In fact I'm absolutely certain it won't.
I don't think that complaining about my old man and the way he tries to run this business while slowly going senile or just becoming a grumpier version of himself is going to stoke my artistic fires anymore. In fact I know it won't.
I just can't glide by on the coattails of my midnight epiphanies without really digging deeper for something meaningful or at the very least interesting.
The rules of my world have been rewritten and those rewritten rules require a measure of effort to overcome.
And make no mistake that is what I intend to do.
Overcome.
Overcome the fact that my life has gone from whatever it was before to resembling an actual life. To coming dangerously close to being normal.
Normal.
Ain't that a pip?
And now I have to overcome becoming what I always figured everyone else wanted me to be.
Normal.
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