I have a draft, or maybe more from October. The last one I shut down midway was so deeply painful that I chose to do everything except address what I was writing about. In a way, it felt a lot like the life I once had and then lost in the nick of a time. Even the lowest points come from a space of privilege, I am aware. 

I suppose taking writing as a day job means dolling out a certain number of words and getting your fill with them. You can ingest or throw up any more than what you train yourself to do. In my case, this page is languishing cause I am channeling all my energy into dissociating my life and trying times, whenever. 

The older I get, the more convinced I am that Prince (or was it King?) Siddharth (L*rd Bu*dha) probably needed a therapist more than meditation. Men will do everything except go to therapy. They'd rather attain salvation or blame Taylor Swift for writing album after album instead of helping themselves.

Taylor Swift, what a baller. At the end, she emerged as a winner. Kanye needs help and she's making the big bucks. A huge win for annoying people across the world globally and a big L for those (like me) who thought Kanye was really onto something until Kim ditched him. 

25 minutes for this month to end. A whole lifetime of trauma to talk about. Until then.