I stayed younger by three hours traveling west across time zones. Back East, I’ve gained the time back with interest. I’m dragging. Sleeping is definitely a problem for me. I should do it more. I don’t. I dozed off watching the 11 p.m. news, roused myself and am now awake. Insomnia is for retards.

Anyway, I destroyed my photo gallery, but I have now almost succeed in rebuilding it. No captions, though. Why don’t you write your own in little cartoon bubbles over your head, at least to you they would likely be more interesting than anything I could write. Try a foreign language, adds intrigue.

Anyway, as my vacation fades into the golden West of my imagination, I notice I was more relaxed just a day or so ago. Was it vacation or was it the West? Was it M.? Was it sunshine and happiness? Was it listening to the Eagles while sitting on Hawaiian print car seats in a VW Jetta?

Maybe I was just born for a life of leisure and work is destroying my soul. Yeah, that’s it. Fucking work is killing me. I am an artist; I am a hothouse flower; I am Jonathan Fucking Livingston Fucking Seagull. I should be floating and soaring, riding breezes, being alive. But, no, I trudge in the dark, burdened by toil, calloused hands, weary muscles, stress and repetition. So, alright, I have a cushy office job, but still in all, it ain’t art. And, yeah, today I was told what my likely raise and promotion will be, but it doesn’t feed my soul. I am an empty vessel, joyless, cowed. The man has kept me down another day.

It may be safe to say that the most accurate birthday present I received was from my sister:

In no particular order, here are the highlights of my trip: