Writers block.

Screw the writers block I'm going through at the moment.

I need to, wind in my neck and get the fuck on with it; Stop wallowing in the misery of my approaching birthday and get it together; Focus intently on my goal and grasp the horns of the goat of destiny.

The Grand Whazoo doesn't like inactivity. Inactivity gives rise to idle hands and idle hands leads to the downfall of many a great man, masturbation. And I've been doing far too much of that in the last week. So much so that I have blisters on my hands and a crick in my neck that's on a par with the best case of whiplash ever seen by man. Ho ho.

Today is the last day of my 34th year upon this great earth. If I live to be 70 then half of my life is gone, never to be returned. That's if I live that long... When I think about the drink and drugs I have piled into my system over the last 18 years or so I come to the conclusion that I'm lucky to be alive.

There has been alcohol, speed, magic mushrooms, cocaine, uppers, downers, sidewayers, anti-depressants and acid-a-plenty ingested, inserted, inhaled and imbided into my body in amounts that would make Keith Richards steady himself on the furniture.

But that is not what is important. What's important is that I have learned lessons. Like which drugs make me high and happy and which get me low and funky... Other lessons have been learned also.

What else I learned I can't recall.