I had nothing to do with writing this book. There are little aliens, probably teenagers, driving around in my brain, moving thoughts and ideas around. They are having a great time.
I write to get things in my mind out in the open, so I can take a look at them. I started by writing down my dreams, right after I woke up. That was a bad idea. My sanity was immediately in question, not that it ever wasn't. I was horrified, to be honest.
Over time, my daily routine has developed into one of waking up, brushing my teeth, stumbling around, finding something to put on, drinking a full glass of water, playing something that was stuck in my head on the guitar, having my first sip of coffee and then writing my blurb. This book is all the blurbs, one minute outpourings of the matter in my brain steamed and pressed. I don't understand them, so I don't expect anyone else to.
They are written through the lens of anxiety and depression with a bit of abandonment (the left behind kind), real anger, self-dislike (downgraded from self-loathing), DBT, guilt for being alive, yada, yada, and maybe a touch of humor, without which the human race would be a more plodding, corrupt herd than it is, uneasy with the existence of itself and others.
