Yes, I'm still alive. The Beast is not yet done with me. Anyway, my readers are probably looking for an excuse. I do have one, but it's minimal. These past several months have been mostly dedicated to therapy visits, with occasional research. In short, I thought that it might be therapeutic, to get away from the blog, but it hasn't been improving things. So, my psychiatrist has suggested that I return to writing it.
Yes, she knows that I have a blog. Don't worry, though. She has no idea of its contents. If she did, she'd probably peg me as a paranoid schizophrenic. But I digress. She's suggested that I add more about myself, because my blog seems to lack some personal elements. So, I'll often start detailing my every-day life.
Okay, so I currently live in downtown Seattle, in a little house-boat. I don't have an official job, other than selling fish that I catch in the sound. I'm single, but occasionally date, and I have no time for Facebook. Okay, enough of that…
Now, back to the seventies:
Nothing of interest happened, during the previous few days, ago I'll skip ahead. On the last day of April, we went to get Tommy, as we'd assumed that he had returned to a slightly manageable state. Thankfully, we were right.
After convincing his mother that it was okay for him to hang out with friends, we took him to see Professor John, in Auburn. Tommy was intrigued, after all that we had told him, so he ran to the door.
He knocked three times, without receiving an answer, so he turned around, shrugging. Eventually, we reached the mutual conclusion that we should simply go inside. Once we had entered the living room, though, we regretted turning the knob.
Professor John sat on a chair, lifeless. At first, we'd assumed that he suffered a heart attack, but the bottle of pills told a different story. There, on the arm of the chair, was a note. It read, "Go to the carnival. Don't be afraid."
Figuring that we had little time to grieve, we left.
