Leave her Alone on a Saturday Night

and she'll get into yr pills, yr thoughts, and everything else.

My hole in the Market

As a kid, I always noticed those faint marks and scratches in the chalkboard that served as a reminder that there were many classes before my own. Remnents of old assignments and daily reminders, etched anew into a new generation of up and coming achievers. As an adult, I can't help but take notice of certain days of the year. Those dates that serve as a bookmark for every year before it. Last year, i was at the cabin with some of my favorite people. The year before that, at a bar in San Francisco, and before that, the Hut/Graduate, and before that.....
My point being, that despite all the changes one makes in their lifetime for reasons of every kind, one cannot change the etches upon the chalkboard. People keep memories for a reason. Last year, i considered making a call. I had even tried that call, but that cabin allowed no cell phone reception. It was probably for the best, for I was drunk and there were countless other reasons it would not have been a good idea. Nonetheless, the idea had crossed my mind.
This day was never very important to her, but every year, I would try to make it so. Things like that were my job back then. I can't make memories like those disappear, and believe me, i tried. I'm sure there are others who have taken up the friendly duty of making the day a good one. That would be a good thing, for i do wish her the best. I really do.

Fatalistic Fancy of B.E.N. Jan.30--03

At the age of 22, B.E.N. doesn't really feel like its time for responsibility. Feelings like those are indefinitely suspended when you wake up at 2pm, drink 3 forty-four ounce cups worth of cola, living with yr parents with no real plans to keep a job, much less even pretend to look for a job, when all that is important is working on your car, helping your dad in the garage, watching countless hours of made for men sport/mechanic shows on cable, and watching porn with yr younger brothers and sister. At the age of 22, you don't really feel like you need any responsibilities. There isn't anyone special he's trying to impress. Girls, in specifics, are rarely on his mind. Instead, he things about girls, in the general terms. He's managed his fantasies to exclude any faces, even the pretty ones, even the thoughts about the lips. He used to think the fantasy of the lips were important, for as the manchild believes, or at least believed once, the fantasies of fellatio were intended to work up his afternoon appetite. He knows what your thinking, but he really actually meant appetite in the hunger of the stomach department. At the age of 22, it was hard to detect any sadness on the guy. I'm sure had he been himself at age 52, it would be a different story. I'm sure in the 30's, this world would have worn him down like a lick of salt. That's not to say that at the age of 22, he was not in sadness. All memories of his defeat were confined into one. He wasn't the type of person to dwell on every little misfortune, on every downward glance of missed eye contact, of purposefully missed eye contact. At the age of 22, girls did not notice him. Insomuch as to say that he was so transparent in their eyes that even the shy ones would not mind making out with men in front of him, shirts off, skirts up, the special night panties for his eyes only. For as big as the man-child was, and he WAS, his presence was only just a breeze. For as loud as his voice would go, describing the wildest stories of grandeur and conquest and elegance, he was seldom heard. There were times when he'd receive a response, though the majority of the feedback was accidental. They were just answering a similar question to someone standing right behind him. It was almost as if he had known that he was bound for the inevitable. As the wheel of fortune spun around him, could he have had any subtle sensations of what was to come not in just 4 months and 1 week? Could it have been that his will was weak? He had it come easy. He still has his honor but yet with few to have truly recognized any of it. I mean no harm to speak of the dead for honor in death tis better than that in life.

I've Gotta New Girlfriend....

and she's just great. I've known her for a very long time, but never once considered I'd ever want to date her. Though, after hearing her tireless ravings on everything from slag poetry to her gun collection, well I wondered why i hadn't already fallen in love. Last night was really cute,because though i'm majorally interested in getting right to the, well, you know, Act...she began to ramble rubbish in my ear. Mixing nursery rhymes with soft porn swedish accents, having her eyes swish back and forth, like window wipers or an excited albino. And i wondered again, why had i not fallen for her earlier? Well, i guess i can sort of guess. It's not that she's ugly, but rather that she's less pretty than she has the potential to be. Those kind of things aren't all that important to me, though. But still, it is something to be noticed. Next weekend, I'll probably go shopping for her. You know, Valentine's Day is rapidly approaching. I bet she'd like me to buy her a new outfit. She's been talking about how she's so sick of her wardrobe. To be honest, i am too. I've seen her wearing the same pairs of pants and t-shirts for the past few years. I'll be glad to get her something new. I'll probably get her something a little bit small for her size, you know, to encourage her to walk a little bit longer and faster on our afternoon excursions. I've been trying to get her in shape, not so much as I'm dissatisfied with her physical appearance, but instead that i'd like more of a rumble in the bedroom. She'd probably get angry should she know that i have written such a thing. She doesn't know of my blog, though. Hopefully she doesn't ever google my name. That's actually a bit of a worry for me, for she is so the type to do just that. I really like her and i believe she really likes me. I think that I may be her first boyfriend, since through all the years I have known her, she's never spoken of any relationships. She is highly secretive, though, so I can't really be too sure. Lately, i've been really anxious to ask her. Sometimes her behaviour seems as if she knows nothing about those unspoken rules about relationships. For example, she demands that i speak to her everyday. You know, i would probably call her everyday anyway, even if she didn't demand it. I mean, i like her company. But to have that expectation on my back, everyday, it makes me feel uncomfortable. Anyway, my point is that she doesn't employ the typical girl tactics. I sometimes wonder if I will ever miss those things. Oh yeah, and another thing, she's expects sex to be like the movies. I thank my stars that she's watches such a wide range of movies and soft porn, but it makes me doubt her experience. Anyway, i'm not complaining, I am only confused. She makes me gifts and her hands are always around me. I like, no, love that....well, for now.... but i wonder about the future. Well, anyway, I shouldn't be concerned with any of that. She's a great girl and i love to make her happy.

Fantasy 201

I decide that this entry be publicized, though for no particular reason. If fact, there are more reasons for it to be drafted. But i like this one. This is one of those fantasies that are there to inflate my confidence, that make me feel learned, that keep me on the edge of my seat. I'd love to seduce the 18 yr old man-child who's been staying at my house. Though, chances are, I'd be scowled upon, it is not entirely scandalous. I mean, things like rape and incest are worse right? Ya, so still just a fantasy, so what?

I tookn't any pills, i swear......

i was in the backyard of an unknown residence, sitting at one of those glass, picnic tables with the umbrella in the middle. I held an empty water glass, and decided to go inside for some more. I slid open the glass door and stepped into a kitchen i've never experience before. i saw kenny at a table, playing on a computer. I asked him to come outside and talk with me for a bit, and he said he was working. So i returned back outside and just looked around the backyard. I saw alot of those generic pothos-type plants hanging from the rafters of the wooden canopy. It looked nice. I saw kenny come outside and i asked him what took so long, and he replied that he had some important work to do. Suddenly, I was in the middle of a rant about my ideas for the revolution. It was not a political rant, but a spiritual one. During the highlight of my emotional spree, I suddenly lost my train of thought and began to become discombobulated. I grew dizzy and tunnel-visioned, and i looked to kenny who was sitting there, with an expression of suspicion. I tried to tell him that i was not under the influence of any substances, whatsoever. I tried to tell him that i was about to die, if not pass out on the floor. I felt very uneasy and leaned on the glass, it was not transparent and that made me feel sicker. I felt something spilling out from my mouth, and it made my eyes water. I was afraid of losing consciousness, though not fearful of death. I was trying to speak to kenny, to tell him that i did not cause this, that this is not a reaction, but an action. Those were the words i tried to transmit. But instead, all i could communicate, came in the form of a brown, muddy mass falling in clumps. Like wet cement, like the result of hours of constipation, like verbal diarhea. I then fell to the floor, and hoped, during the fall that this wouldn't be confused for anything self-inflicted. I wondered if i was poisoned, and i wondered if it was Kenny.
I awoke, very suddenly, very frightened, wondering if maybe was really physically wrong with me. After a few minutes of nothing, i rose for some sink water cupped in my hands and a splash to my face. I went back to sleep, it wasn't hard.

Dear diary,

Tonight he asked if he was my boyfriend. I was a little embarrassed at his question. I had thought we were more than lovers since i was sixteen, seventeen....That's okay though, this is a lifetime affair and labels here are meaningless.

Oh, Poppycock On a Saturday Morning

Tonight she wishes to dream of a room of shelves. High, low, attached, wooden, swiveled, painted, plasticked, etc. On these shelves be there swarms of walkie-talkies all switched to channel 6. They will have the power on and crying a fuzzy wah. Anyone she'd ever like to meet has the twin talkie laying on the side of their head. She'll spend her REM dream time paying attention to every wicked walkie. She will whisper secrets into the holes, she'll whisper want and whimper, she'll know every answer.
There will be no response for that is not the aim of the child. Tonight is for her, only. At least, in her dreams. The frequency of her chatter measures nothing towards the mediocre amplitude.

It was around a year ago......

when I's lost my best friend, Chaz. Actually, lost may not be the word. I'd go more with stolen. I spent months trying to convince myself that the deed was against his will, but he was always looking, always shopping. Through intensive interrogations and local authority hearsay, it was believed that he spent his last days sleeping alone in a park. I couldn't think of any reason he wouldn't call. Wasn't he cold? Wasn't he scared? Hayward isn't the best of cities. And, he knew I knew that. Maybe he thought I was bringing him down. He didn't seem to like living in my car. He was uncomfortable when I'd go to the gym in the middle of the night. Maybe it was lack of consideration on both parts.
It doesn't matter, though, because every night without him reminds me of the night I left him all alone. Maybe I deserved to lose a loved one.

Analyze what you Love, and you Love no more........

Unless yr a computer or a robot, details tend to overload a very fragile piece of mind.
Take, for instance, the love of a journal. As long as yr tricky and paranoid, you can give yrself the freedom to express every stupid, sketchy, politically incorrect, socially incorrect, friendshiply incorrect, fantasy, inclination, analyzation, private yearning to seduce a duckling, yr best friend would look at you in utter dismay, you could never be this cruel, i pretended it was someone else, liar, backstabber, unworthy of the little credit which is occasionally received, secret, yet beautifully romantic, tiny little thing.

No one to judge you, except for yourself.

But for what? What really is gained? The ability to read up on a life when yr either smarter or happier, or maybe when all has been run ragged and the yearning for a time when you once felt anything runs into the blood? I hate when people write like this. I hate when i read it, and i hate when i write it. But i've gotta do it.

Then I thought, why? why? why? Is it because you have noone to talk to, no one to trust....well, you know, really trust? I mean if i told someone how much I loved them, how great i thought they were or once were, how they've impacted my life in many happy ways, how i've learned, grown, and been entertained the whole way through? IF i were to express those sentiments, aren't I also obligated to consider the Yang* as well. I'm not that one-sided. Not with love and admiration, And certainly not with judgement and conviction. IT is for this sake of the existence of journals.
Journals are the stories about yrself and yr influences that nobody else has found interesting enough to write about. They are about the down time . They are the cuddly, wide eyed frog on yr bed.
Then there's the weBLOG, ronellsubrosa.blogspot.com, and the rest of the bullshit I belong to. I thought i wrote a big, boring essay (retardedly similar to this one) not too long ago. It's fucking retarded. Why write anything that needs to be masked? WHy suggest anything that comes with 1930's decoder ring? Why write anything at all?
Why?


Because I'm delusional. I like having something in the net of webs. I like to have something to do. I like to pretend. Like i've said before, I'm the Itsy Bitsy Spider.
Take heart to the title, it means what it says!

*disregard any hippy connotations

To Whom it May Concern,

Strange days are upon us. I couldn't give you any other explanation because i'm probably under the influence. I've been thinking about it, though, much more than I should have. You're nowhere near my typeset, y'r nothing like they say. It's been on my mind,and i dreamt you were relieved. Part of the weakness is imagination. If you weren't so sly-like shy, if you weren't but an infant. Most likely meant by the French interpretation.
Technically, it would make more sense. There's a lot of things I may have missed. And even more in store. I've got a pretentious movie in mind, I have it ready to show. Afterward we can talk, and I'll make the kind of innuendoes that you won't have to think too hard at. They'll be easy on you, like the weekday crossword. I can try not to be weird and rambley and dismissable.
But I won't try very hard. A little bit of false or muddied innocence makes for the perfect cologne.

A swank remark, though said with regard.

Mistaken, the Err

Always be suspicious of the "fancy" areas of towns.
Always ask for a menu.
Don't let them see yr surprise.

Double Dog Gone

Twenty days ago, i wanted IT soooo bad. Months ago, I cried for IT soooo sad. Sickeningly enough, even years ago, i'd have died for IT like mad. The hours is up, and i haven't had it STILL. But I know where it is, and I know what it costs. I dream about it, i scream for it, i wring out my fingers in shame for it. If you had it, you'd give?
if you had it, you'd give? If you had it, you'd give? If you had it, you'd give?

Well i'd never give IT to you! Never! I'm stingy for my love.

Partway Sufrir Longway Denied

bottle up the brandy crane, i know yr secrets,
long, wind, passive-aggressive
i'm an eye at yr window
taken to the stereo
that's all done and fine now
i can read lips
well, yr lips especially, and the occasion gesture
as you hold her down and spit her out
could it be anymore more like play
i keep a small photo
of yr olive momento
of yr gameface stiletto
Just like yr magazine hairstyle
just like yr cough
and the fashion of ice,
bottle up the rocket road
the lines run thin and crooked
i'm a lens to yr window-still
copy every move i made, follow every shadow
the blackest of the darkest hole
should i read yr thoughts,
on guard
i'm the broken pane right under yr feet
and to split me is to slit you
poppy is still my sunshine
and violet, still, my night
come and crawl inside the tiny little number
the sickly small crater
that could make me cry as you'd leave its sight........

Highlights From the Day

A. My dog puked on the floor. He didn't chew his food. Soggy pellets and white gobbly goo.


B. Bacon on Pizza. Who knew?

C. Eighth grade death threats. Columbine's gots an admirer.

D. I should watch my jokes, they may not be funny.

E. Biohazard realized.

F. My little brother keeps trying to catch up to me. He's at 23 today.

G. Hydrocodone

H. People are not what they seem. Bad is good.

I. I found me a friend.

j. A house of 8 makes showers run cold.

K. My calluses have been fading.

L. I am not tough enough for frozen showers.

m. Cat eyes are dangerous.

N. Tomato tastes good in a box.

O. Even ugly people can be conceited.

p. Unscented deodorant works the same.

Q. Hollywood is special.

R. My opinion means the least to whom I'd hope the most.

S. Lonely after nine.

T. I'm kinda good at my work.

U. I get mad at work.

V. I can't watch people OR animals barf.

W. I prefer anorexia to bulimia.

X. If you kick things, they work.

Y. Ice can get as slippery as it damn well wants.

Z. Mondays Kill like Januaries.

My Eyes were Poppin' like a Pill

but you'd never even know it. I'm so bored. TV makes me want bad things. Two weeks of no TV, then two days of all TV, it makes you wanna cry. I feel nauseous. Like I'm overdosing on hydrocodone. Balsalmic vinegar don't mix with shit. I think i drank too much water today. This must be what those bodies feel as they're being pulled from lakes, flood basins, bathtubs. If the dead could feel, that is...

3 Minutes in Heaven...Top 7 Alternatives to the Closet

7. Trader Joe's Stockroom behind the milks and yogurts
6. The abandoned barn along Interstate 5 near Crow's Landing
5. The Wake-Maker attraction at Raging Waters, San Dimas
4. Willy Wonka's Glass Elevator
3. The Basement during a tornado
2. Underneath the sheeted altar during 11am Catholic Mass
1. Hot Air Balloon above the Indian Ocean

You Look Like Somebody I Know

yr dark white summer chocolate
kiss
falling from the mouth of a liar
piss
subtle turn stable rarely able to
miss
make you, break you, never underestimate your
diss

More and More and More and More

I'm all for excess and all, but its time i say enough is enough. When will this rain go away? I'm glad for the dead, beetle ridden trees, and the dried riverbeds, but i want to be able to walk, and drive, and smoke outside, maybe even see a little sunshine. Blah blah, whine when its wet, whine when its dry. The stream behind my house has become a river and i'm tempted to take the boat to work. It's quite beautiful regardless of the inconvenience, the rain travels underneath the snow and rages across the street as if it has no concern for laws or city planning. I guess that's the cool thing about massive bodies of water, it'll do what it wants, when and where it wants. It has no concern for life, structures, automobiles. It has washed away one of our 3 roads up the mountain. Yep, its not there anymore. Poof.
And another thing, while I was on the CalTrans website trying to find a clear road for my mom, I saw they are building a fucking awesome new Bay Bridge. I already knew that, of course, but I saw its little future view and its great. Side by side traffic, no more of that creepy, terribly claustophobic double decker shit. I'm not sure on how they are going to dispose of the current Bay Bridge, but I hope it involves fighter jets and missiles. Maybe George Lucas will dish out a few pennies for some real life, hi-tech sci-fi footage. I've gotta go now, and email him my idea. "Lates"
--quoted by Kevin, the boy who spurred my thirteen yr old sister to sneak out at 2am and walk 4 miles in a 10 degree snow storm so they could smoke the wacky tobackey. His 13 messages with the above quote was later heard by Big Bear's finest after she was escorted home.

What the fuck did i do this time? 

May the Power of Christ Compel You

chilling in my room, bleaching my hair, painting my nails, listening to records, wondering about the lump in my throat, worried about the red in my eyes, dreaming about life in the warmth, considering making musik, feeling like a loser, remembering things, getting angry again, then sad, then to forget, smoking cigarette out my window, lighting incense to mask the smell, needing to change the record again because there's only four songs, guitar's out of tune, too lazy to tune, wanting to paint, too lazy to set it up, wanting to go to sleep, writing, turning, swallowing, sleeping.

And despite all i do, i can't get that creepy exorcist sound byte out of my crazy melon. My brain is sweet and seedy.

Blah Blah Blah, MeMeMe, Blah Blah

Of course i realize it. You really think i'm stupid, don't you? i don't care. Besides being lonely, besides being emotionally introverted, besides becoming a fucking maniac if you knew it all for real, besides wanting to bore yr hopeless eyes out, i actually like talking to, of, and about myself. And besides, if I were to talk about you, or you, or you, or you or even you, you stupid you....well, then i'd really be lonely. Because you probably wouldn't like it. Even the good stuff I might say, even the compliments i might give, even the feelings i might actually show should i mention yr names. Delusion de grandeur....
I'm glad you make the descisions you do. All of you. And especially You!

The Itsy Bitsy Spider

The truth is that I am paranoid. Paranoid even as I lay quiet, in an empty house, surrounded only by trees, trash and snow, under my covers, under my sheets even, fully clothed, ya, with shoes too and a jacket, my brother's big, beige snow jacket, no music playing that I may hear any creak or low frequency buzz that might seap through the sound-proof insulation. Sometimes I dare not even think on those mots terribles for fear that even I will hear them. I am constantly embarrassing myself with the subject. How you can know something, something so obvious, yet deceitful. So wrong, wrong, wrong. I've said it before, "you, small voice in the evening hall, you are wrong."
I admit I feel ridiculous. Absolutely retarded. I wish I was retarded. Many times, i shutter as i consider the possiblity that I am, only nobody ever tells a retard that they're a retard. Except for children. I've been called a retard by children. Maybe i am retarded. But then, how could a retard spell? I can spell, i can spell very well. Surely retards can't spell. And I rhyme. I suspect that retards like rhymes. It probably sounds nice to our ears. Like how kids like the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I like the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I think that song encaptulates me and my life. Not to say that I persevere. For christ's sake, i don't even think i can spell persevere. Unless, of course, that's how you spell it. In which case, I can. I know the spider is stupid, it probably doesn't even have a brain. How big could a spider's brain be, anyway? It sees a spout, it mounts the spout, it reaches its climax with the spout, it falls from the spout, it just almost drowns from the spout....Oh Shut the fuck up, everyone knows how it ends. Back up the spout. Stupid Stupid spider!! Why don't you climb a tree? or rotting rabbit wrapped in leaves? or a girl? or a boy? Fuck that stupid, stupid spider.
It takes someone else, you know? Think it in yr head. A hundred times a night should you be able to stay awake that long. Think it all you want, but you'll never know it. It takes someone else, or maybe two someone elses to tell you something, so horrifically obvious, always on the tip of your cerebral tongue, always on smoothing rocks on yr lazy beach embankment. To be honest, it does no good. I'm still not convinced. The only explanations left are retardation or faith. And i lost Faith a long time ago.

I began this, intending on convincing either one of myselves that i need to get over being so afraid. There are so many things that i want to say, so many angry things that i want to say. So many things that i'm just not allowed to say, and i honestly can't distinguish who is holding me back. I really can't. So the only thing left to blame is Paranoia.

Sometimes when I'm bored.....

I'll go and click on that Next Blog button. The question I most frequently wonder is the age of the author. It makes me mad when i can't figure it out. It actually makes me waste time and interest in reading more and more till i find it out. My curiousity creeps me out. I wonder should anyone be cruising the Next blog button were to accidently read mine. How old would I seem? I sometimes feel 38.

At least Sinbad was Black

Now i don't want to sound like an ungrateful ass slammin' jerk, but (and ya, i said ass slammin') living at home, in the mountains, in Southern California, isn't exactly my cup of tea. Sure, obvious, asshole. I never thought it would be. But these last 6 (shit, six already?) fuck ya, these last six months weren't as mind-cramping as I had originally imagined. I remembered my formative years, thinking I would be like a caged freak, succulently staring out as if you had dehydrated corn and whey pebbles in yr hand. And if I were an ostrich, or even worse, a goat. Well, those zoo-ish verandas were the major components of imaginary play I engaged in back in April and May, the months where I had made my momentary life descisions.
June was hard, I admit. I missed my friends almost as much as when I had first moved to the bay area for uh, ya, college. Booo. Anyway, not that my friends were any less sweet in my memory, only because I've moved from friends before and its not really that bad, and really it had already started before I left anyway. NO, but my point was this, in June I was sad.
In July, I was sad. My birthday wasn't spent making a fool out of myself, or getting kicked out of bars, or even raising the decibal level of my voice. It was spent at home, quiet, refined, like when I was 13. I almost said 4, but I was a rockin', bratty kid who threw tantrums if not first to hit the pinata. Anyway, this wasn't the point either!
In August, things were seeming regular.
I don't remember the rest because i think it really is just the same as I feel now. A little bored, a little restless, a little wanting of crazy times and wild oats. I miss oats. My soul has a yearning for some unexpected regularity. And I say that with the sweetest intentions.
OKAY OKAY OKAY, i ramble, sure. Well fuck, man, give me some time. Give me some breathing room.

So today I came home to a very unsettling surprise. We have some houseguests. Some very, very longterm houseguests. I no longer want to be a houseguest. My mother has this friend, who has this daughter, who has this chiquaqua. Not many people have had the pleasure of ever meeting one of my mother's "friends". Well, hmmm. I almost feel guilty for being such an asshole.
She was asking me if I like dogs. I said no. Only my dog, Pepper.
Now, here, here, I actually sort of don't like pepper. His breath is fucking stank, like he was licking the undertail of a sewer rat. And he'll stare at you while you eat dinner and breathe that nasty breath into your face. Then you'll say "get away, stinkdog." but he'll only get closer. Then when you socially acceptably slap his snout, he'll make this cowering face of an abused child in the back of a closet. Then you feel like a deadbeat alcoholic father who once used his family's food stamps as toilet paper. Even when there was clearly toilet paper, just out of reach under the sink. No, but my point, like i said is that I don't like dogs, especially strangers' dogs, especially small barky dogs, especially coddled, sweater wearing, co-bath and shower buddy dogs. I said no, then I asked if she's ever taken a bath or shower with the dog. In my own stupid mind, the answer to this question provides the much necessary proof of whether or not I need to start using toilet seat covers in my own fucking house. God damn, I feel like a Jerk.

We have houseguests. They will be here for a few months. I haven't enough to make it on my own just yet. After a few minutes of the afternoon experience, I retired into the garage. Here, I can listen to music. Here, I can make attempts at exercise. I made myself a promise. I said, unless I fulfill the following list of accomplishments, I can not leave this place. After evaluating their realisticisity (come on, wouldn't that be a "radical" word?), I gave the timeline until March 30th.
Come March 30th, I will be leaving.

I saw that movie Houseguest, starring the aboved titled celebrity. And I liked it.

The Year of the Blank

During some blog post, Mark had made the excellent observation of how the New Year slash Resolutions should be on a day more like the first day of Spring and not in the middle of winter. There were other things said, I'm sure, but that's all my memory allows at the moment. I remember thinking....huh, true. It really is stupid to start a year at such a dead, cold, snowy time of the year. Ya, cuz see, i feel the winter death here in the mountains and very little feels new at all.

But supposedly things are as you make them, and like anyone, i'd like to have a good year. I thought about last year. I wondered what, if anything, I had accomplished, and i sorta didn't like my answers. I guess they were baby steps. Like in What About Bob?

Today, I refused the feelings of regret, sadness, and self-loathing. I'm gonna try this again for tomorrow, too. I hope it just wasn't the residue of bubbles in the brain.
Champ is the Champ, till we meet again, next year!