Writer, baddass, communications b*tch.

Pretty much sums up my f*cking existence. The angst meter is higher than I'd admit to anyone comfortably at this point, one death, one terminal sickness, and one down right petty lie come together in varying degrees of tragedy and annoyance to make for a very odd spring. I can't bring myself to feel for a family not my own, but I also feel the sting of familiar loss. I've been there if not recently. I honestly can't even begin to address the M.S question, or worse than that the issue of a certain other but all persistent insult. To answer these nagging thoughts I play more bass.My callouses are coming in nicely as well. Two years ago, to think I'd be playing bass I might have cringed, but now? Who the f*ck cares, I dig it, isn't that the new point of it all? I wonder if I've become more hedonistic in that way, maybe I have. This had to be up, drivel though it is. It had to be up, if only as the marker of a period of time in my life from which I will eventually grow.