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Ah, back in California, the land of no real winter and legal weed. I had a chocolate at two in the afternoon and slept for six hours. My circadian rhythm is gonna be fucked up.
Got a lot to write about, but really not feeling it. My old English teacher in high school (Hi, Ms. Kocela! I hope you're still alive.) said that Ernest Hemingway, not matter how hung over and terrible he felt, still wrote every day, and I'm neither of those things. I feel comfy and content in the moment. Do I really need to accomplish something every day? I went to the bank, OK? There, I did something. Just don't ask me to do anything else. I'm done.
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