In Which I Force Myself To Continue The Only Joy I Have Left!

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    T. Quintius Rufius, slashing through the enemy lines.  With the death of my beloved cat Monster, I have tried to escape this world through a prolonged drunk.  I wish my problems could be solved by mere violence.  I wish I was a brave and charismatic warrior, not to mention handsome.




     The other night a guy I don't know came by and gave me a broken dreadnought guitar.  He made predictions and left.  I did not get his name.  The guitar is almost fixed and I am rebuilding it into a much better instrument.  This is a true story.



      Putting flowers on Monster's grave.  A fucked up piece of graphic self-pity if there ever was.  And the work of a swishy unstable bloody minded rabbit.



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