So I’m supposed to write something every week for 52? One for each, according to the Gregorians. So be it. Let it commence. If it be late.
STATEMENT OF MoThErFuCkInG PERRPOSE:
52 weeks + 1 lifetime of speaking my particular truth. No universal truths guaranteed. Nothing that wins the lottery. Nothing that rings the bell, nor, apparently, brings home the bacon. Mine is a truth something transient and homogeneous…. no. Not homogeneous. What’s the word(s)? One truth spoken through a particular lens, forged in fire, polished on pavement, and shined with shit.
Goddammit I hate alliteration.
Right now I’m 3 greyhounds into my belligerence routine. So far, only a piece of the usual sickness is powering through me.
And today I worked at the restaurant. A new one for me. Washed dishes. Listened to really smart people talk about really smart things, broadcast through my fucking phone while I washed more dish. I am getting my degree at dishwasher university. I am PhD. Dishwasher of philosophy. Gob bless.
And now I am making some sort of commitment to a 52 week challenge. Every week thus far been challenging. What’s 52 more?
I will write 52 things this year (at least). They may not be every week. They may not be on this site. I have other writing projects than just you, Medium. But yes, there will be at least 52. On that you can rely.