so...

I'm addicted to good beer
I'm addicted to sunshine and gasoline and pumping my gasoline and watching beautiful women pump gasoline
i'm addicted to cigarettes and woodsmoke and smog
i'm addicted to frozen pizzas and organic vitamin supplements and
certain kinds of cough syrup
i'm addicted to writing and reading and computers and children and parents
and... did I say sunshine?
I'm addicted to a veritable plethora of colorful chemicals in my drinking water, my french fries, my rainfall, my food, my clothing, my cleaning products
I'm addicted to sex and tongues and shoulder blades and loneliness
I'm addicted to television and movies and radio
I'm addicted to the fringe, the underbelly, the counterculture crazy, the voodoo shamans on barstools and their crows that haunt our streets

Where do we draw the line between addiction and habit? How do we
delineate between physical heath and mental health and their paradoxical panacea?

Our vices and our virtues bleed into time across the same value line,
biorhthymically complimenting each other's inadeqeucies and acting together to help us hold ourselves above water. If heady dank local beer and an irregular sleep habit is what keeps you going, what keeps you sane, what keeps your family on track then
so be it. So be it if you spend enough on beer over the years to send
your kids to college... would you, would they have ever made it to the
point where they can question "which college should I go to?" WITHOUT
that beer you drank to fuel you through shoring up the foundations of your own business? Through dealing with the trials and tribulations of shoring up a nuclear family? Silly questions in my mind.

How do we attempt to justify our own ineptitudes and failures? To what extent do comments and criticisms from loved ones play into our cycles of binging, purging, being?

Look what a kiss will buy
or sigh giving
or die living

An odd day yesterday, completely unpredictable, like I like them. A blue foul funk of a mood blew over me so I bought some bookshelves and played blackjack at the casino. Sure, I may have lost money, but I bought the experience, I bought the drive home, the presence of mind it gifted me, the tips for the dealers, two beers, and an hour of pure random entertainment with older strangers guffawing at the outside world inside a dark dank cave where daylight fears to tread. It was great. And I got to smoke inside! [a luxury here in Washington State] So I proceeded to spontaneously stop at Sage Books in downtown Shelton 'cause I wanted to write and had not a pen upon me and they have one of those nifty free internet 'poo-koos' one can utilize at one's leisure. Then a drive around the island, a beer, some beach before the darkness settles. Tenses and times merge within me. I take the weekend off to winterproof the house a bit, build shelves, push books around, get some yardwork done. Today I end up sleeping until 1:30 p.m. Suppose I needed it. My inner workaholic yanks his hair out. My inner shrink taps his foot and frowns. My inner witch brews tonics. I do what I can, take some time for myself, go with the flow and forget about everything I planned on accomplishing this weekend. Fuck it. Do what makes you feel good and keeps the moss off the stone.