"Reach into the Bag"

In which I spend the past weekend drinking and waiting on tables, and rediscover the joy of rage.

The newest conversation replacement in the house has arrived; no longer one of the near-identical iterations of the best-selling brain-disabling world-takeover that is the Electronic Art's FIFA series, it is in the online multiplayer for Halo 3, a game that I have some modicum of ability with.  I may not be terribly good, as I have quite a low affinity for dual-analogue controls (yes, the leading method of FPS controls, whatever), but it's good fun at least, if a million miles away from both the pixel-perfect sniping of the N64's Goldeneye or the Gamecube's genre defying masterpiece Metroid Prime.  This advent of online gaming in the Scholary will ensure that the race for both sofa and controller has become more desperate than ever.

But the weekend!  Yes, this glorious weekend past that seems to mark a turning in the tides, not around the coast of damp old Cornwall but in my life.  I am also slightly terrified, but on to that in a moment.  Friday night was composed of a booze-infused house party hosted by friends from dyvers other lands.  There seem to be several different stories as to how exactly the night ended and who went home at what time, but what we all agree on is that we were deeply inebriated and even though there were some stupid arguments, we all had a rollicking good time, and nobody got alcohol poisoning.  Hooray!

However.  I awoke on Saturday of my own accord and my own volition.  At half past eight in the morning.  I'll give you a minute to think about that clearly, and I can wait because it's not the easiest thing to process. 
As I said last week, I had managed to shift my body clock back a whole five hours, which is no mean feat in itself, which was still pretty problematic by the time I got to last Friday... and then it just flipped.  My metabolism can look after itself, regardless of what my conscious mind wants to do, which is ever so slightly terrifying.  Although like I always say, my subconscious is far more intelligent than I can ever hope to be.

Hiatus

Sorry about the delay.  I woke up at about half past five in the morning today feeling like one of those roast in the bag chickens.  Feh.

But as I was saying.  Saturday night was composed not of becoming excruciatingly wasted as these things often are, but instead consisted of running around the Cathedral Restaurant waiting on tables with the Cathedral Restaurant staff in an event known only as Dine Opera, where patrons are assaulted by various Operatic numbers sung by local artistes in between the three courses served to them and lashings of expensive alcohol, all in the name of raising money for the choir tour.  One of the major ground rules of this evening is no Countertenors.  Anyway.  Having worked in the Restaurant as a table waiter in the summer which I still refer to as utterly dreadful, I know the staff and they know me.  As usual, a lack of clear and detailed instruction before the evening drove me to meet with the Restaurant manager and ask her what was going off... which ended up with me basically doing same work with the rest of the staff, which was absolutely shattering.  Hands down.  I did, for my troubles however, receive a plate of lamb chops and vegetables (one of the courses on offer to the patrons) for free as payment, and also a chocolate mousse dessert, which was just totally excellent.  I look back on that time when I worked there, and regret not being able to control my depression to the extent that it became something that stopped me from working there.  There was no ill feeling all night from either me or them about me working, I volunteered to wait on because I enjoy working with them, and I thought the help would be both needed and appreciated, which it was.  It was also quite damaging towards my mobility, and it's taken me a good four or five days to recover.

Sunday was extremely painful, but on balance a good day.  The Vierne Messe Solennelle was graced by my high-pressure top octave, giving the Kyrie's treble high A's the punch they needed.  The evening, graced by local legend Russell Pascoe's Magnificat & Nunc Dimittis, then became a slaughter of my liver once again, by reporting to the Rising Sun Inn after Evensong to celebrate the birthday of one of it's proprietors.  I returned home to the dreaded Scholary at about... well, I don;t really remember what time in the morning per se, but let's say after 1am.  I discovered that the others had eaten all the dinner (under the assumption that I had gone to St. Ives with the Boss), and that also they had the intelligence to pick my carving knife from the grab and use it...and the courtesy to leave it covered in Pork fat lying on the side.  This of course, immediately made me wrathful, and I set about to the washing up.  Inebriated.  At half past one in the morning.  That's all true.

I have once again become the angriest yid on the soil.  Something obviously tripped in my head for that brief period that I was asleep in the early hours of Saturday morning and I now remember how much I actually enjoy being angry.  I feel that I have wasted my life trying as hard as I can to keep an even temper and be as forgiving as possible... Yes, all admirable character traits but somehow... Fruitless.  Although this is still some sort of progress, I mean, it's better to be angry all the time than be depressed, right?

I need to make more effective and positive progress than this though.  I'm even considering a return to Physiotherapy because really when you get down to it, being crippled is painful and disappointing and terrible.  Getting a job is becoming more and more of a priority, as not only do I have the tour to Sweden in August to consider, but funding myself and accommodation are arguably even more important.  

There is no rest for the wicked, after all.  But the lazy seem to get by just fine.

"Have a cat"

So!  Back to the grind.  Excellente.

Indeed, the grind.  What sort of life is it where the second thing you do after sorting the first tea of the day is the washing up?  I don't know...

Things are no longer drastic, at least.  I no longer have any desire to pen and hand in a letter of resignation, but my sleeping pattern has become one I'd describe as 'transatlantic', being a perfect 11pm-8am... 5 hours behind GMT.  Yes, I know how irresponsible that it, how unhelpful it is to have completely shifted my sleeping pattern like that, I really can't wait until we get to Sunday and I'll have basically napped for four hours before getting up for Eucharist... When it gets to about 3am it can get a little boring but I'm surprisingly upbeat when I do wake up properly in the afternoon, my usual routine notwithstanding.  

But let's talk about something interesting!  My lack of sleep will stand for ever and eternity unless I bite the bullet and finally ask the doctor for a scrip of knockout pills, which especially after the chat I had recently about anti-depressants... no no, I'm not going on them either, as I still have on my old methamphetamine attitude... which is a brilliant story, allow me to tell it.  And no, I haven't been taking anything illegal.  Not even remotely.

For years and years and years and years I used to take medically prescribed amphetamines to treat my hyperactivity.  I know, looks ridiculous doesn't it: uppers for hyper children.  Somehow it makes a difference.  What most people don't know is that amphetamine is also a powerful appetite suppressant, the effect of which was nothing short of a disaster: I have been underweight for years and am only now, some 5 years after stopping taking them that I'm beginning to eat again.  Anyway, one particular permutation of this dreadful chemical left me dazed and confused, and hearing voices in my head (THAT DIDN'T BELONG TO ME) all day at school... It was absolutely fucking awful.  It wasn't even a heavy dose particularly, but it wasn't right, and oy gevalt was it terrible already.  Long story short I got put on a different set of pills entirely and turns out those were okay!  Big capsules, but still...okay.  I ended up taking myself off them purely upon the advice of an ex-girlfriend and her mother.  I know, what sort of idiot does that make me?  Ignoring the advice of medical professionals in favour of rebelling against my mother?  Completely witless.

I had to take at least one pill twice a day, almost every day for... 11 years?  Seriously.  Yeah, about 11 years.  I hate taking pills, beyond belief.  I'm pretty thankful that Paracetamol is a fast working emetic as far as I'm concerned (well, for me personally of course), because it means I get to fight my way through headaches and hangovers chemically unassisted, a process I rather enjoy.

The weekend was moderately thrilling as well, with a gala performance of Thomas Tallis's greatest work, Spem in Alium, known by a number of rude names to Choral Scholars the country over.  The forty part motet was sung alongside a concert programmed with music for the Men's choir, the Gentlemen of Truro Cathedral, whom I shall still be joining in September.  Russell Pascoe's Missa Brevis was of course the centrepiece that the rest was hung on until Spem, as we're really focusing on commissions this year because the Cathedral and Choir are 125 years old!  The Senior Lay Vicar is only 124, after all (LOL).  Due to my new body clock, getting up in the morning was bad enough, but I was ready to throw the towel in by the time Evensong started, let alone finished, and then there was all the rehearsal to get through... But it was really good!  I really enjoyed having an evening of just Men's voices music with the full team, which is something we lack every day.  The Scholars also performed as a group, with some crowd pleasing classics, The Bare Necessities, a six-part Steal Away, a solid SATB arrangement of Let's Do It that we've flipped so it's Barbershop style with the tune in the centre, and finishing with Blue Moon, and arrangement reminiscent of the 'Gents of Johns', the A Cappella group formed of the Choral Scholars of The Choir of the Chapel of the College of St. John, Cambridge University.  While the skill and technique of such a group, much like 'The King's Men', The King's College equivalent and of course the ubiquitous 'King's Singers'... You know I just don't like it that much.  I'm a Barbershop kinda guy, that super tight four part harmony, and those ridiculous hanger tags... That's the good stuff!

Then of course the second part of the concert was made up entirely of Spem in Alium.  Now this is no small undertaking, with eight choirs of equal voices, no consecutive octaves or fifths in the whole damn thing... Actually a work of genius when you get down to it.  I worked from a 40 part score in A4 because I'm that arse.  Yes, somebody had to do it, but to be perfectly honest I think it worked much better than having a partbook for saying I spent so little looking at it.  I only listened to it once before the first rehearsal and I was pretty much sight-singing at that.  


As ever, my weekend-centric, unemployed existence continues unabated.  I have a new haircut, a new coat, but the same worries.  It's almost time to get back in season down here though, so jobs are being advertised left right and centre, so I'm going to update my CV (SEE MOTHER) and get my best "I'm a great candidate for this job!" face on and sound out the current opportunities available.  I'm even going to see if I can actually make a job appear with my own two hands, quite literally as well.  

The title of this week's post, is of course a shout out to almost every conversation I have with G, where we remedy any problems we have primarily with pictures of Cats from the internet.  I'm definitely going to own a cat, allergies be damned, I shall name it Absolom so at least I'll be happy one day!

Vignette XXXIV

Oh                                Yes!

I gave it to                     you to keep

safe for me.                         Safe for when

I came back to visit everyone, the grand return.

I remember when you sent it before I came back.

It seemed like the perfect reason at the time, but alas...

I shouldn't have really, at least after that time it was returned.

I didn't even have chance to get anywhere near it last time. 

Can you imagine how terrible that would have been?

Truthfully... Yes, I think that it's yours now.
Don't even try to tell me off, silly.

 Maybe I should keep it?  

 But you can have it. 

 Just a little  

 part of  

Me.

"Dereliction of Duty"

So... Sorry about the drop in the schedule last week.  To be perfectly honest I was too depressed to write about anything other than being depressed and really... we've all had enough of that.  The sporadic posting behaviour I fell into over the past summer is really all we need to remember about that little chestnut.  Even thinking about it is making me less and less inclined to keep writing.  OY VEY.

A week previous, I had survived the Three Spires Charity Ball at the Headland Hotel, Newquay.  I feel like I'm still tired from only having got back to Truro at 5:30am, and having to sing Zoltan Kodaly's from 9am that particular Sunday morning.  There was also a lot of Gin.  A huge amount of Gin that I put inside my body.  And then the mud fountain that we made by pushing a car out of the filthy ground.  To be completely honest, it was still a fun night, with the singing and the fabulous venue and the delicious meal and the conversations I remember with a lady called Wendy about bread makers...  Being still actually drunk and in fact, late for rehearsal (because I got up at 8:59 and managed to forget my robe was hanging on the back of my room door) left me feeling horrifically embarrassed and definitely like I let the side down.  Turns out I didn't actually do half as badly as I thought, I mean, I could have sacked it off and then lied about feeling ill now THAT would have been letting everyone down but you know I just don't do that sort of thing.  Subsequently working through one of the worst Gin hangovers ever led to an host of advice, from the usual take aspirin...(or was it paracetamol?) to laying in a steaming bath of salt all afternoon.  I will be trying the bath...probably tomorrow, in all seriousness.  The ultimate mid-term afternoon treat, right?  My clothes have come back from the dry cleaners spick and span, in which having a hand made dinner suit makes all the difference. 

Ah yes, we're now in half term, to use the more familiar term.  This is the famed 'halfway point of the year' (so sayeth the boss), with the comparatively slow journey through Lent, before the freefall to the end that is Trinity.  Recently, as I said at the top, I've been feeling pretty down.  I've gone a little off message, and really doubted what I'm doing here.  I don't have the greatest self-esteem in the world even at the the best and most high-functioning of days: I am more likely to question myself and my own motives before anybody else...and I know that I am far and away in the minority in doing so.  I look to myself and usually end up with more questions and doubts, and send myself into a vicious circle.  Fun times!  Yeah.

Funnily enough, last Thursday (the 14th no less), I woke up and remembered that I was in actual fact a human being (it's not often that I do that, so mark it down guys).  I don't even know why or how, but I did and I am doing pretty well so far okay you guys!  My sleep pattern is still shifted from last Saturday, especially after having gone clubbing to the local, uh, club venue for the last three nights in a row.  I like to think I can still cane it with the best of them, what with my ultimate remedy of literally two pints of tea and a hot shower... I tell you what though, I am never going out until three in the morning on a work night (that's a Saturday, folks!) again.  Okay, give me like three or four weeks to break that but seriously.  While I finally seem to have found my clubbing legs (as it were), it's still deeply expensive, massively tiring and ultimately, a waste of good sleeping/practice/cleaning time.  YES I SAID CLEANING TIME.  I am rapidly moving towards finding less ironic and more genuine joy in cleaning up.  Obviously I'm one step closer to becoming a homeowner, and several steps closer towards insanity.

Right now though, things are calm.  The house is quiet, with only two of us here, and I feel pretty relaxed overall.  Sat here writing into the early hours after a pretty up and down week seems so much easier having talked out the major issues with my furthest but still dearest.  The future's still terrifying and doing nothing but getting closer.  Trying to find employment is...difficult, and for one primary reason: I have no confidence.  I've added a page to this very site, you'll find it right there at the side, where I'm forcing myself to talk about...myself!  I find it a real test, because everything I do is... what I do.  So what I've sang here, done that solo, met this artiste... I don't really see any great glory in it because that's what I do, it's my daily bread and I don't really believe in shouting it from the rooftops (or, more accurately putting it on my CV or similar)... but actually maybe it's time I considered the alternative.  I'll add to the page (which will become the ultimate jumped-up autobiography) as and when I can/see fit.  I'll be looking forward to a quiet week, where I can support local business and get back to some practice.  I will also be detoxing the tiniest bit.  Reprioritising, and of course... Making a difference.

I am becoming more aware of my differences, and indeed the other Scholars.  Our career paths are moving in different directions, and as I often return to, perhaps that makes more difference than I am aware of consciously.  But then again, variety (or indeed, viarety) is the spice of life; it'd sure be dull any other way...

"Constitutionally incapable."

Another week rolls on round, start and finish all in one.  I tell you what, watching my statistics has been very interesting; my American readership seems to have skyrocketed, as has the audience in Taiwan?  I can't exactly do anything about it, even if I'd want to... It's just very curious!

I've received a few personal responses from my last post, all of them complimentary!  What a winner I'm onto here, eh?  Thinking back, I'm not even sure what made it such a success, but I guess the new pattern will tell.  This week's been...slightly different.  I managed to survive an extremely extended panic attack which peaked on Tuesday, I guess it lasted for about three days.  The only time I do episodes really are upon meeting my number one phobia head on and having my blood taken (these are two totally different things, I hate both but I'm not scared of blood weird huh).

So I'm writing this totally in the grip of possible insomnia and definite body clock shifting, vaguely considering what I have to do when the sun shines upon Monday in old Truro town.  Squinting dimly around the room offers no clues, except for the Banjo hanging on the wall: I'll be playing in the Rotary club's Victorian Evening, fusing historical facial hair with an anachronistic instrument (the Tenor wasn't standardised until the early 1920's) and the repertoire of the solo baroque Violoncello.  WHATEVER.  It gives me an excuse to roll out the barrel once more dear friends, and god damn it do I really love that Banjo sound.  The strings are a bit worn, but we're coming up to the annual clean down and restring date anyway, even if it is after tomorrow...

In between panicking and avoiding dairy products... Oh yeah.  I'm suddenly lactose intolerant.  Like, violently.  I'll leave it at that, but identifying potential sources of illness in my diet has composed a surprisingly large percentage of this week's mental activity (the physical partner was of course, avoiding such produce).  I went to the Doctor to just check it with him that I was allowed to be sick after cheese, to which I was told I'd need to get a new set of bloods done juuuuuust to be sure.  You can forget that chummy!  I can quite happily spend the rest of my life avoiding cooked dairy produce (although I'm even beginning to suspect that my milk is plotting against me...) without having to go for another set of panic-inducing blood tests!  But where was I?  Oh yes!  In between panicking and avoiding dairy products, I have started to feel the squeeze of a lack of financial resources.

Of course I'm moaning about not having any money, but it is really my fault and nobody else's.  I went out and spent it all, so it's my fault!  Finally, a mature attitude to money!  HA HA.  I did my week's shopping spend and then paid my phone bill within days, which basically took a hundred pounds from me straightaway.  The rest, as usual, has gone on going out.  Almost every weekend since coming back from the magical island kingdom of Derbados I've been out til all hours (even on a Saturday, foolishly enough), pushing myself socially and alcoholically to almost breaking point, and somehow coming out of it alive.  Alone, perhaps, but alive.  Don't worry folks, I've gone back to the good old days of being unable to pull in clubs (after the brief flowering in the LCR, late 2011), or indeed unable to get anything approaching a date at all.  Funnily enough, I have been trying as well.

Obviously I don't understand this whole romance game - I proved that over the past twelve months really, going through two relationships that struggled over the 12 week mark.  If this were still at university, a semester's worth of dating would be a legit turning point, I suppose.  Three months is actually a long time, especially when the days tend to stretch on forever and ever and ev... Sorry.
Last term, I was in a funk and didn't know what I wanted; it wasn't until Christmas that my head really leveled out and I felt that I was in a position that I could be sincere with not only others but myself.  I like to know what's going off.

Finally, I led a workshop with an after school group as part of the Cathedral Choir's outreach programme this term.  This really did fill me with dread, especially after finding myself frightened to leave my room in case I saw anybody else at one point on Tuesday.  Turns out that I made the right choice leading this hour, as it was actually quite life-affirming: a necessary boost for my dreadfully low self-esteem.  Having no formal training in planning a rehearsal, warm-ups for young voices, leading choirs or other handy tools, I was justifiably nervous to begin with.  I also refuse to demonstrate anything not in falsetto, because God Damn it that's who I am and there's no way I ever want that to be muted. 

Haitus

Things seem to be leveling out into one permanently cental-heated, washing-up centric way of being.  After last night's Victorinian evening and the short sojourn to the Rising Sun, I'm not sure if anything exciting lies ahead of me.  Life can't be all go all of the time, I suppose, but a week is a long time after all and a lot can change!

"Seems Legit."

So.  The first post with the new schedule... Late!  Start as you mean to go on, eh?  Turns out that this in the 100th post I'll have published (YAY MILESTONE), so perhaps there'll be some sort of nostalgic retrospective... Oh wait I already did that.


Last week itself averaged out as brilliant, due to the high impact of the weekend, the memory of most of which is hidden behind clouds of laughter.  I can't really remember the most part of the week itself...probably because nothing noteworthy happened; the curse of the unemployed.  All I have to do really is evensong, and that's only a two hour portion of the day.  Actually, secretly, I'm looking for a job.  Don't tell anyone else because then they'll just go and apply for all the jobs and I'll be unemployed FOREVER.

I think there needs to be a change in the format of how I write these.  One of the main reasons that posting ground to a square halt is I lost all confidence in what I was writing - classic writer's block.  I didn't feel that anything I was typing out was informative or amusing, that nobody would have any interest in reading.  It's kind of my root problem in socialising as well... It's the same sort of sudden panic that sets in when faced with the answerphone, and of course, attractive women.  HA HA.  I almost feel like I'm leaving myself open to ridicule, but I guess this is what happens if you write from a personal angle and publish it on the internet I guess it's all part of the deal.

Actually, in all seriousness, I think I've been doing pretty well socialising these days.  Having plans to live in Truro for a good while (say at least a few years), my priorities are ever so slightly different to the other scholars who will be moving on at the end of this year (well, July (well, September really because of the tour in August)).  Although I mostly meet people in pubs (come on I'm a member of a Cathedral Choir, there's always the post-evensong pint), Truro's a small city, you can't help but run into people.  It's nice though!  I feel like I'm beginning to make friends as an adult, unconnected to a study course or my choir, on the strength of character and conversation.  I should think that my reputation as quite a heavyweight drinker has earned me a few fans (especially at a particular establishment), but obviously I could do with avoiding alcoholism.  A few heavy nights in a row has robbed me of much of this month's honorarium, so it really is time to start becoming more responsible with my money.  Buying drinks, not just for myself but also for other people (and finding there is no return...) is just getting too expensive down here.  As much as I enjoy a drink, I far prefer being sober to being hungry, so there's a real cornerstone.  Also, I'm on the Council Housing list, and I've made some personal inquiries into renting costs, although I really ought to start looking into utilities as well.  You know, boring life things.  Things that extend to adult responsibilities.  Anybody worried out there with all this crazy talk?

I've already done this once at Bury Street to various degrees of success and/or failure.  It's all experience, right?  Paying rent and bills sure is a hell of a fag, though.  Living in rent, utility and tax free accommodation (anybody else think that looks wrong?) as a legitimate part of the contract of the Choral Scholarship, that cannot be any more than 300 yards away from the outer crypt door of the Cathedral is an amazing boon, and one that having been through University and back appreciate very much.  The house may be damp and end up feeling a little cramped living with three other guys in what is ostensibly a two bedroom property (the downstairs parlour has been converted into a bedroom as usual and there's a small third room upstairs which would probably used to have been an study or similar), but you know it's a nice place!  If I didn't want to live in a damp place, I wouldn't live in Cornwall.  As a note to anybody who isn't in Truro reading this right now, it is absolutely throwing it down outside (or it was when I started, because now it's just wet and cold and generally miserable).


Of course, outside of my immediate concerns in Cornwall, I find that my thoughts have turned to America, of all places.  Right now, as we live, breathe (and I type), some of my most treasured friends are over in the states: Grasshopper, G, and one of the best writers I ever met and danced with (AMS Ball 2011, still one of the best nights of my life).  I still miss Mike from Marin County, San Fransisco from BH28, but I guess the community fostered in Nelson Court still has a great deal of impact on my life.  I finally restocked my picture frames and I have one of my Grasshopper and one from the AMS Ball on permanent display.  Of course I miss those carefree, post-dissertation days... but I miss the people even more.  I even did a huge roast dinner on Thanksgiving last November in memoriam!  The principal guests, funnily enough, were non-natives to British soil (two German, one French and one Irish), my housemates instead having attended the Youth Choir and then subsequently a local pub, only stayed around long enough to eat, before going out into the night.  

I might try and move away after a while.  Sure, things are good here while I mature and grow into the post of Lay-Vicar, but I wouldn't ever want to get set in one place through lack of choice.  If I'm good enough for Truro now, then I can certainly be good enough for other places (and definitely in the future).  Perhaps I will move far, far away?  Who's to say.  

Postscriptum

You know, I've actually enjoyed this.  I deleted a good 200 or so words earlier, and then started all over again and I think it's okay!  I think I might hash a few more out this week, commenting more specifically on the weekend's hilarity, and maybe I'll push a few hundred words out about that Indie Rock band I can't get enough of.

Write on Schedule

Of course, there had to be a pun.

Once again, silence has been the order of the day round here; the signs of decay apparent on the dashboard: a drop in views, no comments to be moderated and a small number of half finished drafts, the unsatisfactory nature of both content and tone mean there can only be one fate...doomed to remain unpublished, a constant reminder of bad blogging.
 
In my last post, I dimly remember mentioning something about reading about weekly posting schedules, and how I didn't subscribe to them.  Well I've changed my mind.

There are already several tonal changes apparent delving through the archives: the first period that was excitable and helped me deal with the depression of my surroundings; the second period that was characterised mainly by referring to people around me with self-imposed titles - and in fact I still call people by those names: The Chief and of course The Loser whom I love, Grasshopper, The Admiral, The Waltzer, The Philanderer, Sensei... The list goes on; a third where I began to allow circumstances to take control and spoke candidly about how bad I felt, and the most recent and arguably most depressing, where I notably diagnosed myself with insanity for doing the same thing over and again and expecting different results.  I'll call that the "Peb is sad" part of my œuvre.


It's time to move on now though.  That's where the time table idea comes in.  I live in an environment I'd casually describe as insane, one of almost constant social movement.  Recently things have almost reached a "them-and-us" situation, but things have improved.  Social and domestic boundaries are in a state of constant flux, and to comment on affairs one week is to represent a false state by the next.
 

So.  Every weekend there'll be a post drop.  It'll probably come on a Saturday night, realistically.  (Edit: there's more of a ten day feel to it, I usually get round to writing, proofing and posting on a Sunday night/Monday morning.)  Interestingly, I do enough things a week rather than sit around being depressed all the time to merit not having it as the sole subject of my prose.  The first one starts this week, I've certainly done enough already and I'm even going for dinner tomorrow night as well.  Who knows, I might even learn how to draft effectively (haha as if I mean come on you guys seriously).
 
I do still claim to be a writer after all, but my lack of practice means it doesn't stand up to any scrutiny.  I'm no poet laureate, but I can still knock a decent haiku every now and again.  It's going to be so easy to not bother, just like well, everything that doesn't have an instant and tangible reward.

But then again, a lot of my life is on the long haul.