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Fear. That is what I feel as I eat pancakes and drink coffee and fiddle around on the net instead of working. I realized last night that I've become an advice giver. I float around reading about other people's problems and do I sympathize? Of course. But what do I actually do? Give advice.
Is this me?

Sweet Jesus. I think I'm gonna cry.
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I didn't cry. I went out, had my day, went to the ramen shop and read Raymond Chandler. I noticed that people still like to put quotes on their journals, and I thought, eew. And then I thought

Philip Marlowe's talking to himself. He's landed in the bin. 'Okey,Marlowe,' I said between my teeth. 'You're a tough guy. Six feet of iron man. One hundred and ninety pounds stripped and with your face washed. Hard muscles and no glass jaw. You can take it. You've been sapped down twice, had your throat choked and been beaten half silly on the jaw with a gun barrel. You've been shot full of hop and kept under it until you're as crazy as two waltzing mice. And what does all that amount to? Routine. Now let's see you do something really tough, like putting your pants on.'
Hard boil me, baby.

Oh, and I had to look up Carrie Nation because when they knock Marlowe out, everything goes as black as Carrie Nation's bonnet, and in spite of too much education, I know nothing about the history of my country. This is Carrie A. Nation.

Isn't she awesome? She started the temperance movement. OK, the temperance part sucks, but fuck, she toted around a hatchet and stood about six feet tall, and was a badass, albeit a puritanical one.