—I’m writing more. I haven’t waited to publish a book to call myself a writer, and I’m not going to start now. Technically I am a published author, though to reveal the venue and the event would start a joke since it’s such an insignificant footnote of an event, I shouldn’t even count it. Irrelevant. I’m a writer, and I’m doing a better job of getting up every day and writing something every day.
—I’ve slipped back about answering emails. I’m very sorry about that, and I’m doing better as well. Don’t think for an instant that I don’t appreciate your notes, your messages, and your stories. I haven’t forgotten you, I haven’t forgotten them, and I will answer them as soon as I can. Before 2019, I promise.
—I just ate an olive.
—I got one of these in the mail recently:
I ordered it despite mixed reviews about it never arriving from China. Fortunately, in my case it did. I’m very happy with it, and I think it will help my efforts to be able to one day draw my own Size images. I love paying for commissions, but there’s stuff in my mind too depraved to share with anyone and hope to leave their wholesome minds intact. We’re supposed to protect and support our artists, not destroy their psyches until there’s nothing left but a mass of tears and blood.
—Don’t forget this thing. I haven’t. It’s still a thing. It still exists. I’m going to update it this weekend with actual entries. I expect at least a thousand of you continuously write songs about giantesses and tiny men. It’s not just dorky, non-musician me that does it, and my friends Aborigen and others. But what do I know? There are Size people that are musicians, writers with some talent, and simply refuse to compose and write*. Fine, see if I care.
—Someone send me doughnut holes. I’m seriously craving some. And cocoa. Chop-chop.
That’s it for now. I’m off to read, drink, and write. And possibly eat another olive, since they are shaped like doughnut holes anyway.