Back to routine and predictability two weeks running. (Or a month and a half depending on what particular incident you count from, what particular routine you’re referring to.) Saw less of my bed in the last three months than I did in my entire lifetime. (And I have the battlescars to prove it.) But I needed that. To let everything go and decide to live and decide some more.

Think I just met the smartest, most interesting person I know. Listened to said person call The Strokes an “instrument of mediocrity” to my face. Stared back and almost agreed. (I still love you Nick Valensi from the bottom of my soul.) And this afternoon? Was bribed with Glenfiddich single malt 21 to stay. When I said that wouldn’t cut it, I got this: Would you change your mind if I got you Bose? I said: Alright, fight. There was a pause. And then laughter.

Jumping off that, there’s this. Let’s say you love something. Not being happy is always a reason to quit. Because happiness is everything. But you don’t just give up like that. You fight, and you bleed. And when you’re bled dry, that’s when you stop. Anything short of that is a mockery.