Ashes to Dust

Sometime Saturday morning, I woke up and puked into my bathtub.

Had a talk with the studio exec Friday night, then went drinking with a friend somewhere in mid-town. Some girl at the bar picked up my arm and started inspecting my ink as if I were a free art exhibit. At the end of the night, my friend put me into a cab. The cab got into a small accident as it tried to make a turn onto my street. As I was leaving the cab, I noticed that someone had left a nearly-full pack of smokes in the backseat... which I instinctively grabbed, as if some cosmic sign.

And then, Saturday I woke up puking. I didn't smoke, though.

Sunday, I spread some ashes in Central Park. Some old letters that I burned a fucking while ago, that I'd been meaning to get rid of for ages. Took me a while to find a place to dump the ashes. Hard to find any privacy in Central Park. But ashes have finally been spread, and good riddance.

Monday's taken off, to catch up on some writing. Some bigger career movement may happen this week, but I'm never certain.

Goddamn. It's March.