Morning, sunshine

Post pity party:

My naked, sweaty body was seemingly glued to the leather chaise where I apparently slept all night. Wakened by the morning light, I peeled myself, limb by limb, from the sticky leather with dreams dancing in my head from the night before. Dreams about a far away place on the ocean. I couldn't find a key to an enormous old rambling beachfront home. I knew it was mine -- if only I could find the key. There was a silhouette of a man that I could see standing on the back deck, and I knew he was mine as well, if only I could find the key. I wanted to be with him so badly, that emotion was incredibly strong. I ran up and down the shore line, with the sound of the surf crashing in my head. I saw the silver skeleton key being swept away in the water, and I kept reaching for it -- it was just out of reach every time. Finally, I grabbed it. My heart leaped (or is it leapt?) . . .and then I awoke. Shit.

My head is a little cloudy from the bourbon -- and I see that the 'It's a boy!' cigars are still wrapped, which is a good thing. I'm looking at two blank canvases -- one being my back yard, the other the enormous canvas in my living room that I still haven't tackled -- and am determined to start filling both today.

A late morning run will do me some good along with the 5 Tibetan rites -- which I've tweaked a little to better suit me -- so now I suppose they're the 5 Angelinean rites. I imagine I've broken some sacred law out there somewhere, but what the hell.

I've always been a rebel.
With or without a cause.