“The question is, can an old thing like myself be made new?”

5 years since high school and two aborted attempts at higher education. Eight years of chronic marijuana abuse. A lifetime of underachievement. Not to mention all the MTV and fluoride in the drinking water, plus a couple of blows to the head.

Each day is an iteration of the last. It’s too bright outside, and I don’t want to leave the house. My hair looks like shit and my face is even rougher.

I’m hanging over the edge of a cliff. Let’s hope I can fly.