That has become like a ritual at this point. Every Friday afternoon/early evening, I am both washing my hands of JP literally and figuratively.

I wish the bathroom was Best Buy themed.

Canelo is either about to get outboxed or Crawford is about to get absolutely battered for twelve rounds. This is intriguing.

“Timmy where are youuuuu”

“They might have actually got him this time.”

“Ok where tf are you tim and why are you ignoring my calls.”

“FEEED US OUR SLOP.”

“Why didn’t he post yesterday?”

“WHERE ARE YOU!!???”

“Sir, a second Seafood Tower has hit the Pig.” “Ground all podcast traffic.”

“They killed my boi”

“Oh silly me here I am on a SUNDAY…think my episode of the Tim Dillon podcast was recorded yesterday…WHAT GIVES.”

“Where is Tim, this is August 23rd and no Tim WRECKED my weekend.”

“Where the fuck is the new episode?”

“Who is taking bets on which intel agency took Timmy boy out? CIA? Mosaad? That French one that has changed its name a bunch of times?”

You were beginning to last Fall.

Daniel, think about it. Not as much daily karma, no drama, not as much stress. Not as attached to the 3D. You’ll be getting 7 to 8 hours of sleep a night. You’ll have a ton of time to meditate.

You’re intuition will strengthen again, you’ll begin to feel her again, the sense of her absence will begin to cease more and more, then the magnetization strengthens more and boom.

It happens.

And you’re there.

“Why are we worn out? Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, become totally bankrupt by the age of thirty or thirty-five? Why is it that one is extinguished by consumption, another puts a bullet in his head, a third seeks oblivion in vodka, cards, a fourth, in order to stifle fear and anguish, cynically tramples underfoot the portrait of his pure, beautiful youth? Why is it that, once fallen, we do not try to rise, and, having lost one thing, we do not seek another? Why?”

Anton Chekhov

It implies there’s an “I,” there’s a: “you,” and that “I” am experiencing this emotion for “you.”

It sounds so “high school,” so emotional, weak. Its unconscious.