I am genuinely very upset at the moment.

Lemmy from Motörhead, David Bowie, and as of this morning, Alan Rickman. All of them within a month, all of them age 69/70, all of them to cancer.

Shit's fucked up, yo.

Where have I been. I could attempt some yarn about how I was circling the drain or something overly dramatic full of the type of pseudo symbolism that the going through puberty set thinks is edgy and dark. In reality it's a lot of navel gazing and thinking you understand something more than you actually do or being overly disappointed when things don't work out because of a lack of experience, especially when it comes to nuance.

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