That’s the thought that gets me. That’s the fear. The Nothing. (Seriously, The Neverending Story ruined me when I was a kid).

Back to the animal spirits…  Justin read my cards the other night after a long day of work and a couple glasses of wine.

So sing me a song and I'll come out to listen.  The well may be close to empty, but I am encouraged to fill it.

I think his name is Bernsie. He has a big thick beard and is humming loudly to himself as he slams his fingers onto the piano keys. He takes a big gulp of beer and says, "Let's play something."

<<INSERT POUTY FACE AND CROSSED ARMS HERE>>

"See, a lot of cats don’t work on their rhythm enough, and if you don’t have rhythm, you might as well take up needlepoint or something. I can’t stress it enough. The next thing is pitch. That’s universal. You’re either in tune or you ain’t. When you get these things down, then you can learn how to solo.” Prince, Guitar Player 2004.

Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Blank. Like the static that blares before a radar cuts out to oblivion the word escapes from my lips, “fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffuck.”

My social circle just happened to include an incredibly disproportionate amount of trust fund kids.