I got up behind a microphone tonight for the first time since . . . I think it was February. Before that, I can't remember the last time.
I'll cop to a bout and a half of anxiety, where the idea of leaving the house felt like someone strapped a shipment of phone books to my back, pointed to a hill, smacked me on the ass, and said, "Get to trudging, Sisyphus.". I can also say that it was not an uncommon thing for me to get home so worn out from 8 hours of squeezing empathy from my turnip heart that the last thing I wanted was to risk having to give a shit somewhere else. Somewhere along the way, I fell into an affair with my couch. After a while, its whispering got stuck in my head. It would tell me things like: