Stuck on Acid

I just don't know what to do with myself.
Duh-dum.

Sometimes I'm this ripe, pomegranate-colored fruit about to burst, but some days I have the temperature and emotional balance of dirt in an old diner's kitchen.
Those days have grown seldom, but they're still there. They seem to pop up on the horizon a few days in advance, as if to say "Hey, old friend, missed you." and then they give me a nice big hug and never seem to let go. Course they do, sometime. Everyonething does. Let go, I mean.

A lot of the time these days happen when there's not much stuff to do, or when there's really important stuff to get done but you just can't. Alcohol- and bad-diet-induced malnutrition of the brain only add to that. That famous whereisthepointingettingstuffdone, especially whenwe'reallgonnadieanyway.
Contemplate dying. I did, a couple years ago. I still sometimes do. Not cause I'm serious about wanting death, but because of my curiosity for those tingly moments when you're careening on the margin of the worlds. This curiosity is essentially what makes me me.

I'll have some pizza, I think. And then get stuff done, like my future. And one of the few things that actually inspire and excite me. And then feel something, something nice. Like having gotten stuff done and not having given up.