Sometimes I feel words are pointless.
Let me see, for awhile I thought I was stuck in a Henry Miller novel based off of being homeless in Paris, but now I realize I'm stuck in a novel of my own creation. Great. It's a bit confusing so far, so my self-summary is inherently meandering. Let's call it a work in progress. That has a pleasant tone to it.
My favorite two sentences from any article I've ever written goes as follows:
Without getting into too many details, apparently my biggest problem is that I’m, “too unpredictable,” aka, “a ticking time bomb,” and that because of this, “we’re through.”
Well, if I am unstable, know that I’m a product of my environment.
Alas. For the past few years, I've spent most of my time in what in essence involves time traveling, so it's hard for me to define an exact home. I guess you could say I'm based out of New York City, though I wouldn't. I work as a writer, a term that could hardly encapsulate me--let's just say I'm a drifter, radical economist, florist and sloppy musician. Sometimes I try to give up but I'm super bad at follow through. I also like ping-pong.