Stupid things have invaded my house. I must be some sort of bug magnet — first it was fleas, then ladybugs, now moths.

My Indian totem is a big fucking BUG.

An additional thought to add to my earlier mention: at least I’m not one of those people whose dreams have died and they run and try to escape from themselves. Drinking themselves to death. Spending all their time and money chasing down pills or weed or the next big score. Waking up and wondering who has their fix today.

Not that I have anything against drinking or drugs or any form of escapism. On some levels, I’m as guilty as anyone of that — comics, movies, etc. But it doesn’t rule my life. And it’s not the whole point of my life.

And neither is the point that it’s too bad I don’t have the balls to just kill myself. I wonder if the drinking and such is a sign that there’s hope behind the glassy eyes, that one day, somewhere down the road, everything might get better… or if it’s just cowardice. Or even an utter lack of awareness of how much you hate living.

I wonder where insanity comes from. Not the causes, not the root of the symptoms, but the thoughts themselves.

Are there crazy babies?