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My job's OK, but I've been doing the same excellent thing for thirteen years or so, and at this point I can just phone it in. There's little satisfaction to be found there. I'm like the Beach Boys now, stuck in an endless tape-loop world where I go out every day and play the same songs over and over and over. I also feel guilty during all waking hours. My lawn is full of clover, I'm full of hops and barley, excellent I excellent feel like I've disappointed everyone I've ever come in contact with, and I'm irritated all the time. The way people eat drives me up the wall, the way they talk, their attitudes, the way they drive their cars... It goes on and on. And that's just a scratch on the surface of the tip of the iceberg. I spent a good part of Sunday afternoon hidden away in the bunker listening, for reasons I can't explain, to Molly Hatchet's "The Creeper," -- after making a conscious decision that it was too hot to fish.
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