Ok. So this one's called: The Best Feelings Ever.

I kind of drew up a rough sketch as to how to write this on the way back from the store. It's now 7.00am. Craig and the Old Man have gone to work. I've just trekked to the Post Office to get some baccy from the newsagents, to skin up. Full Tilt has been fired up. It's time again to write.

I came up with a startling observation on the bus. It's not the magnitude of your feats, but the degree in which you perceive them, that have the bearing on your overall stakes of happiness, and fulfillment. For example, on the bus, I found myself quite chuffed knowing that at my disposal was a sweet magazine, some sick tunes to listen to and the finest chocolate digestives that would never see a cup of tea. I was, essentially, overwhelmed with self adoration. I'd made it.

Which got me thinking. What else brings such feelings of achievement. Walking up the high street at 6.45 in the morning to get baccy to make a wee bifta is one. I confounded myself in a crapulent sense of well being by: buying an apple from the grocers and giving it to homeless chap and making a rollie for Jesus, the coolest homeless/guitarist type I've ever met. Now I wonder home, stoned and write. That's a pretty sweet feeling.

I thought back to yesterday. Seeing Lauren and the old women she lives with (Vicky and Annabel). And that I made the right decision to get out and live my life. Weird fuckers.

And that at any given point, I'm capable of being either: an elastic sharp witted tool, a grafter, a guitarist, a human boy that is constantly on the verge of breaking into song/tears because of the ridiculous state of happiness (tickets booked, ready to rock) and boredom (another month without her!). I'm in a constant limboid state. An emotional deep fat fryer. Don't ask me to explain that metaphor. I'm just hungry.