I've been looking so long at these pictures of you

Ever looked so long at pictures of you? Or them. In this world of stored pics, downloaded videos, songs, letters, (can one download letters?) I think it's overwhelming sometimes to look "long" at anything. Can I actually digress if I never began a topic? And I digress. I sat down to work. At a bar. In a restaurant. Yes, I do work well out amongst the people. Sonofabitch this soup is hot.

So I sat down to work. And I promptly clicked favorites, found darekaaron, logged in and began to write. What if work was writing? How would one procrastinate? Not that procrastinating is an incredibly bad thing at present. I've got lotsa time. The love of my life is home, in San Francisco. The girls are with Grandpa. The house is a mess, which is another item falling under the procrastination umbrella.

And I'm here. "Working."

I've been told on several occasions to write a book. A book about my life. Now granted, I'm not a war hero, or a financial success story or mogul of any sort, or psychotic, (I don't think I'm psychotic) or a representation of anything that would seem bookworthy to me. But I thought a book might be fun. I could highlight it with unknowingly smuggling cocaine through the Miami Airport in my favorite Snoopy at 2 years of age, drug use before my age reached double digits, falling out of a jeep driven by my parents on a highway in St. John, cracking my head open on a dock, drug busts, horses, skiing in Steamboat, surfing in Hawaii, playing football, 5150'ing my suicidal Mother, finding methamphetamine, robbing the restaurant I managed, getting arrested, snitching, acquiring Christopher Darden as my attorney, serving time, going to rehab, digging out, divorcing, finding Mom dead, finding love, and living. Living the entire ride.

I don't know. "Bookworthy?" What is bookworthy these days. God, I hope I don't ever find my way onto Oprah's book club.

And yes, once again, that's not even close to what I came to write.