I was in Target the other night and I had a bad case of the can't stop drummin, can't stop struttin, almost even dancin...bobbing up and down pushing my big red Target cart. The emotion/feeling blobs that were bubbling in my bloods were: terror, exuberance, hilarity. It was a weird way to feel - in Target - it was a weird way to be, in America. I needed toothpaste. I grabbed other items, though, because I was there. It felt like people were observing my odd demeanor butyouknowwhatfuckdat. Work is hard. Life is hard. When I get confused or scared or pissed, I just go: “Okay, what’s next? What’s next? Next task, what is it, so I can crush it, what am I doing next: do do do.” Like that. And forget all this self-help crap dammit. It should all be muscle memory by now. It is. I just dance a little. I try to bring it back to the awareness only. Who is it who hears? Who sees? Who feels? Who's doing all the seeing? Who's feeling you up? Not the I. No. Or. I is the awareness. I am the awareness. Either that, or that is total horse shit. And that is very possible. I've been thinking a lot about identity. Am I adding experiences to the basket that is me? Or is that stupid. Do I really have no identity at all? Or am I full of all kinds of me. These words use exageration to get your momentum going I think. They might be holy words, but they exagerate.