I have recently noticed that the only place academics really get to be truly creative is in the titles of their journal articles

“The Truth and Divinity of Sickness and Rage in the Karaoke of Despair", Cristaudo, 1993

being a personal favourite.

The other day I woke up with a hangover so incredibly monstrous, so incalculably immense and savage that I felt it must be God's way of punishing me for leading such a terrible life. Which, I guess, in a sense, He was. Or maybe it was just a friendly reminder. A kind of paternalistic don't-fuck-up-again-caleb love tap across the jaw. It's been many months since I did anything wretchedly debased or hellishly appalling while drunk. No black outs. No gut clutching feelings of remorse. Haven't had the urge to write, probably from having nothing much of anything worthwhile to say. I could tell you of women, of my many failures and the occasional, limited success, but uh, yeah, to be honest I'd just be picking at the navel lint in the bellybutton of my soul, trying to summon up some words, a subject of conversation, making mere inconsequential small talk.

How are you today, I'm fine, hope the kids are well, fuck you and so on.

I met a drunk at a bar once. True story. Yeah, I know! what are the chances. He'd just been fired from his job as an offset printer for chronic absenteeism, and there he was pissing away the last of his savings on beer. He told me he felt lonely, absolutely lonely, a loneliness as sharp and absolute as the blade of a falling guillotine. Perhaps that's why he drank; I think it was. I felt like saying, “I know what you mean! I feel the same way!” but I didn't because then what: two sad drunks at a bar sharing a pitcher of beer and misery. Could have helped, but probably not. Got the inclination the blanket of night smothers each of us alone. The stars still shine, they reach out hands to clasp each other for comfort but are forever separated by vast blank gaps. The old stories got it round the wrong way. The holes in the sky don't let the light in, the sky used to be pure white and the dark spaces in-between are where the devil done tore a big chunk out of heaven. That's how it is with people, reaching out but being too far apart to touch. Least-ways, I reckon so.

I want to fall in love, but you can't force that shit. That shit has to happen natural, like being blind-sided by a bus or surviving a hurricane. The coffee I'm drinking is too strong, too sweet—and just about right for me.