We decided to spend the day sight seeing (Two Dutch boys, hairless ass weasel, and friend Behr) because we bought a train ticket to Berchtesgaden we can't use until tomorrow. I was going to kneecap the travel agent we went to after doubling back to Munich because we got lost in the woods after getting through the misplaced bog (which is now Behr canon). We were walking around amongst the trees for a long time and I swear upon all that is holy that some of them had faces. This is why we doubled back. Not due to cowardice like the evil Allies when we beat them back after their inane foolishness in the Nancy boy themed "Operation Market Garden." Bunch of pansies. Sad. We got them good after that. And then the communists came. Terrible.

I digress. You know our shared history, friends. We wanted to see some sites including beer gardens, beer maidens, and men in short pantsed overalls and funny hats. I hamstrung fifteen of those motherfuckers in less than ten minutes (and my pocket knife extension for my X-Man type hand has still not gotten sharp, so you know how much sawing I had to do to complete this high degree of difficulty task).

After the sights were seen, I pumped out a quality ejaculation in the bathroom of what looked like a fake Howard Johnson's. That is probably the wrong place for one of those squiggly marks you put sometimes in words when it looks right to do so. There are no rules about using these things. It is purely for aesthetic purposes. Anyone tells you different, you know they are infected with the liberalism and require the genital cuff to prevent them from continuing their failed line. Only the strong will survive when the natural order returns. The Fuhrer will make certain of it once I restore him to this world by becoming one with him. It is a dream I have that began with the first animal insertion into my body cavities in 1939.

I struck out with the lady with the Ukranian bazookas the other night and had to slice the throat of the man who tried to intervene when I forced her into my car after slipping her a mickey. That was a disappointing way to end a fun evening, but tomorrow we get on the scenic train to Berchtgaden. I love train rides. So relaxing, even knowing that I am the prisoner of these two children who want to throw me into a fire and that fucking thing that came out of my ass that keeps looking at me and grinning.

My friends.

Most of the time these days, I wake up early, but not too early. I am well-rested, and rolling out of bed is slow and luxurious I drink my coffee: I eat my granola. Two hours pass on my couch answering email, replying to messages, and otherwise ordering my day. Then I do my chores and leave for work, driving Boris some seven miles to work.

The tunes are good: the roads are, for Boston, clear, and my day is spent solving good problems, real problems. Sometimes I have lunch with friends: sometimes I have plans that night. I might go to the gym. I might take a long walk.

If it's not a workday, I'm busy: walking, visiting friends, maybe on a road trip. The road, and world, is wide, and full of possibilities.

I come home late in the evening, fix myself a snack, and maybe do some writing. If I'm going to some kind of social engagement that weekend, I might put some thought into that: I might do some wire-wrapping. With Google Maps open, the latest trip is planned out and executed.

Plans are made: things are done.

I am in bed before midnight, a cat asleep at my feet, my hair braided, tired but optimistic.

But these are not those days.

These days, I sleep five to six hours, sometimes uninterrupted, often not. I wake up late, still tired. Getting out of bed hurts: everything hurts. I drink coffee because otherwise my head will hurt worse than it already does. Begrudgingly, I put food into myself. My work laptop becomes a slog of reading through email, and my day isn't ordered, except by meetings. It takes force to do even a bit of the chores, and driving to work feels like a ten mile march, through a marsh, with no boots.

I'm tired. I'm so tired.

My brain is a dull din of trauma and current stressors. The skyline feels like a trap: work seems inconsequential, save for the occasional bright flashes of light and insight from mentors who, even in this depressed state, are sources of hope and inspiration.

I come home late in the evening, and it's hard to remember to eat. When I go to social engagements, I often find myself drunk and holding brief, surface-level conversations. With closer friends, it's easier to talk to them about the current thing eating my brain: with luck, I'm able to push away the things causing the active emotional pain and distress. It feels like palliative care

The world feels narrowed and hopeless, and I sit, staring dully into my laptop until I'm too tired to focus my eyes.

I am bed before 0300, the cat yowling elsewhere in the apartment, my hair tangled, and tomorrow promises more of the same.

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