My birthday is in two days. This one is depressing as hell. I feel as though I have nothing to show for all these years on this earth.

All my art work that my parents had kept over the years is gone–stolen by someone I should be able to trust with my life, but I wouldn’t trust her with a bag of dog shit.

My writing is at a standstill because my brain won’t work under stress.

All I have is The Curmudgeon, my cousins, my friends, and the pups.

Come to think of it, I am wealthy.

You all have a good one.