I ache, and I'm tired all the time. The chemicals that surround me, either through my own actions or not, are finally getting to me. I can no longer hold my breath for longer than 5 seconds when scoping another asshole celebrity and I certainly can't run from the entourage. I figured it was time to change shirts and not show up at my present job anymore, sit down, learn a new trade, and hope to shit that it turned out better this time.
For the first few years, it was fine. I wrote a few pieces about how you don't need to soak a 2X4 in motor oil for years, just a couple weeks is fine. I never felt the need to get in touch with anyone concerning my whereabouts; my agent was pretty pissed about this one, but who cares? I'm doing what makes me happy.
After the company became a huge conglomerate of success, I left in the middle of a board meeting, headed for the north, and was told some time later they were still cleaning up the bodies of those who had jumped from the top.
They blamed those on me too.
