It takes to the third day off, and you end up sleeping 'til four in the afternoon, unable to move the body, at my age.

And this is the hard part, waking up late but not feeling tremendously guilty about that, and sitting down to write.  As if writing would be any help for you, practically speaking.  In this situation you're in, looking for a better job, a saner life and lifestyle.  What's so great about writing anyway?  Perhaps sitting home alone in the evening is not conducive to the creative juices.

Wake up with the usual sadness, as to what one's own life has amounted to.  Thoughts of a grocery list.  Tea.

Lack of skill.  Groggy.

Our only chance in this great depression economy, to become vaudeville entertainers, pub singers, unpaid authors...


Operate out of the notion of abundance, not scarcity.  That's where I went wrong with girls and sex.  Fuck being a gentleman, kid.  They don't want that.  Nor do you.