I don’t know if there’s a moral. But it is safe to say that at those crucial moments …

No bitchin’ song, no inspiring tale of even a George Carlin, no world-class breakfast burrito will ever be enough to save me from myself.

It really ends up being a matter of personal character and whether I have it or don’t.

This time, I failed.

I let the days rush over me like spring creek water and I let them numb me into a person I don’t want to be.

There isn’t any justification for it. There isn’t a way I can send my gaze over the tableaux and write myself an excuse.

I went to Work. Not in a frenzy of self-loathing over spilled milk–there was a pinch of self-loathing, to be honest, but just a little one, and no frenzy. I took it seriously and spiritually and pushed forward with the right mix of humility and pride. I took the collected scraps and notes about autocracy and related shit and slapped them into shape with alternating love and selfishness and craft and intention. I’m not wrecked or anything. I’m watching myself closely and in spite of the enfolding and obvious darkness I like what I see.

I was just that close to being better, but then I wasn’t.

But in a few hours the moon will set and the sun will rise again in much the same way it did last time.

What I can’t do is excuse it, or be excused. What I can do is pick myself up out of the corner I flung myself into, wipe the blood from my lip, and start again to try to succeed on my own terms.