of me, myself and I, reflections of those, images of those and a very painful urge to pour some proverbial ink on the paper.
I know me. There is a thing when I go all noble and stuff and start to think I might have gotten better and begin wishing for a second shot at life as the most people know it. That thing comes now and then and goes out fairly quickly without causing any serious damage to the image of me that I built for myself and that's that. I used to be a broken man. Now I'm broken and I like it. Or so says the image of me.
One thing is certain: I sure can ramble. I like to throw big words between myself and the real me. All I wanted to say is that these holidays are throwing all kinds of screwballs at me.