I’ve got this habit of using the first sentence as a title so…

I’m not breaking it now. I’ve been writing regularly and unprofessionally for maybe nine years, with so many different levels of quality and success. Style and purpose and all that seems to come in waves. This is my latest wave. Rosa’s place. Which, as I probably won’t mention again in future posts, is Charles Bukowski’s old mansion. I think they knocked it down. Really I just wanted a free-to-use picture of a crappy LA bungalow, but Bukowski’s was pretty much the only one on offer after I got bored searching and, hey, it’s Hank’s home. Well, one of them. What’s not to like?

The other day I pledged I’d writing something every day. This means a poem everyday at scagmag.uk – my poetry stream. It also means something more loosely defined. I like journalism, specifically Hunter Thompson style journalism, and I like critical reviews. So this place is probably going to host a lot of that, with the occasional bit of life wondering, meandering…you know, relationships, exercise routines…boring shit that I make interesting.

It’s 4am where I am now, and under lockdown conditions for Coronavirus I’m going insane. Just the lack of work, the claustrophobia of not having demands on my time. But heck I’ll get used to it, and it’s getting me writing daily for the first time in a long time. So thanks virus with a substantial death toll. Oooh fuck. Okay, so, my headphones are broken and tied together with hairbands, and usually only one of the ears works, but I just shifted my head to scratch and the other ear started working. What is that, the virus gods smiling upon me? Or is that just regular god, you know, the one with a sick sense of humour?

Ah I can’t tell. Though if I lean forward too much the ear goes off again. Fuck. I’d give Marshall a bad review but I’ve treated these like shit for about a year, so…I’m not hugely surprised they’re failing. Constantly getting crushed in my bag, in use at least 6 hours a day, the rubber wire protectors frayed exposing copper threads beneath. Frayed. It is spelt like that, says Google. I’d get a new pair if I knew I had a job to go to. I should just buy the pair and stop getting casual beers for a week. But then how would I get my beer without getting beer? That’s too much to manage. I’ll just have to wait and see if I can drink this thing out.

You know I was – am – thinking about becoming a prostitute and getting “Bitch” tattooed on me somewhere…but not while the virus is going round. As badass as that would be, I don’t really want to swallow a load of Gonorrhoea AND Covid-19 in one tasty splort. I’ve got a friend who’s a sexual health nurse, but no friends working on a corona vaccine. Don’t get sick with something you can’t cure – that’s good advice if you can keep to it. But hey, if I get the tattoo I’ll be sure to put up a picture. It’ll be tasteful. Ah, who am I kidding? It’ll be…well I’d like it if it was filthy, but I don’t know how you put that in a tattoo without blood poisoning. Wouldn’t life be easier without this stupid sense of self-preservation? Maybe I’ll just go with the classic dog paw.

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