I just had a thought.

But I'm not going to share it with you.

This is what sucks about going public with Stabface Punchcock, now everybody knows where as before I could hide behind the fact that no one knew this blog existed. Now if I post something here I have to deal with the fact that somebody might read it. As opposed to before when the chances of someone just stumbling on it were slim to none. That way I could write whatever I wanted about who ever I wanted with no repercussions. No longer. Maybe I just need to start keeping a diary that I burn at the end of each month, that way I could be safe from ever being found out. On the other hand, it doesn't help when I need to go back and read over my past entries to see where I've been because I honestly can't remember.

My memory is so shot at the moment that I was talking to a girl the other day... and thought it was someone else. I go to her cafe everyday. I see her minimum 4 times a week. Not as bad as the other night when I was at a dinner party and I asked if one of the guests had left, only to realise they were sitting next to me. There is no doubt in my mind that if I were to do one of those tests they would find that I am slightly brain damaged. 'One of those tests'. Great use of language there. Why is it that the cynical side of my brain is not dying as quick as the useful side?

So I am avoiding the issue at hand, which is weighing on me. I am going to deal with it the same way I deal with everything. Go home, smoke a load of weed and try and forget about it until I sober up tomorrow, at which point I will get lit and start the cycle over. My unflinching honesty is the best and the worst thing about me. Ask me and I will tell.

Actually, I probably won't. Do you remember that scene in Magnolia when William H Macy is in the bar and he's crying saying "I do have love. I have so much love to give. I could love someone."

I could love someone, you betcha. I could love them until we both died from it, that's how much I could love. All you have to give me is your permission, and it's yours.