Back when I had to roll up my T-shirt to keep the sleeves off my shoulders.

I have been thinking about completing an earlier book I worked on...

I've made many but never finish.

On account of going crazy and living in the story.

Which is why I am thinking that I should most definitely not continue my story.

Or any story for that matter.

But another part of me needs it.

It's like I have to write fiction to get the crazy out.

Put it on paper.

Or in a word document.

Separate from me.

Helps me keep the crazy away.

Unless I write too much.

In which case it absorbs me.

Which is never good.

One of my stories was a comedy

about an over weight and incredibly hideous man.

To quote it, "A tear trickled down his cheek, smearing his mascara before vanishing mysteriously into his many chins."

I began to have self image issues.

I thought, for at least a week,

That I was the world's ugliest man.

Which is hilarious now.

But at the time it was not.

So I had to stop.

I had another comedy that brought similar problems.