The North Coast Co-Op always smells good.  That's what I thought as I walked through its doors, carefully avoiding a hippie woman in a flowing skirt, her dreads threatening to give me lice, and I have no hair.

I found my coffee.  Grabbed my stone.  Checked out and split.  Put some Meatmen on the car stereo and made my way through Old Town.  Not missing the junkies, thieves and lizards.  Not missing much but my daughter.  Thinking I had a lot to do at home.  Worrying about friends (and one in particular whom I shall not mention by name).

Four days off.  Heaven.  Get some writing done.  Finish up my King Automatic interview.  Make some bucks.  Clean.  Maybe watch a film or two.  Maybe finish reading my book.  Maybe hit the lottery.

I have nothing else to say right now.  I'm drained.  I feel like I've gone a few rounds with a coked-up Mike Tyson.  The fight is gone from me, and I have a headache.  (I had it before the H1N1 virus was shot up my nose, which was a surreal experience, too.)

I want to hole up and hang tight until I kick Mirror's ass at some video games.

I also want to help out that friend, but  I have no idea how to do it.

Time heals all wounds, right?  Or wounds all heels? 

Yeah.  I need to disconnect a bit.

A lot.

And so it goes ...

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