GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #951: 2025 DOES NOT BODE WELL

 For the past few days I've been getting ready to take this mantle up again, and I thought I'd jump right into politics before January 20 comes along, but fuck that. Because big picture? That's terrible for everyone, even the unsuspecting MAGAs. Besides, small picture (but fucking huge for me) is what I'm looking at this year.

I can't imagine I'll end 2025 with two feet. Gotta be honest, today I had a bad feeling about The Foot. A lot of drainage came out of it today, and it is super swollen. I could not get my shoe on this morning. I had to go back to the medical shoe with the velcro strips. Often times today I thought maybe I should just go to the ER. But if these are going to be my last days with the foot, I want to get the most out of them. I also want to start planning to fuck over the corporations who are going to swarm me when I no longer have money because my second prediction for the year is I'll be out of a job. First and foremost is jailbreaking my car so the dealer can't brick it from afar. The plan is to also . . . I'm a little crazy right now, so I'll hold off on that.

(I did message my podiatrist. He asked me if there was any redness, and there isn't. He doesn't seem worried, but now I'm thinking about how cold I was on Friday. That is also a sign of infection.)

There are a few things that are probably going to come up this year on my Reasons to Start Drinking Again list, but those two are the big ones. So to top it all off I'm probably going to drink again this year. My life has been a constant downward spiral, but I may be reaching the end. It angers me that I won't get to beat Mom's high score of 53, much less Dad's 59.

I hope this is just the paranoia speaking, but last night I thought about all the things I wanted to do with the new year, about all the life changes I would incrementally make over time. I have a little notebook half-filled with my ideas and how to implement them. But whenever I start making big plans for myself, the universe shoves the Fickle Dick of Fate right up my ass. It's been probing me all day, but I hope it doesn't make me drink during the first full week of the year.

I thought maybe I should go to the ER anyway tonight, but I have a plan of action. I see Wound Care on Thursday, but I have some antibiotics (they accidentally gave me two packs, and I'm not going to just return one) in case I have an infection, and I have tons of ice to kill the swelling. It went down a little today, but maybe by my appointment, I'll have fixed this. Or they'll highly suggest I go to the ER, so I might want to pay a bag on Thursday . . .

The really fucked up part of this is, I started looking forward to losing my foot so I could drink again. That, my fine fuckers, is the very definition of addiction. I killed that horrible thought as soon as I detected it, but I can't deny it was there.

I'm hoping tomorrow's better. And hey, this was mighty depressing. You should check out the new issue of The Cocaine! Bros.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #779: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND THERE IT IS

 It didn't take the universe very long to self-correct itself. Now I'm back to my usual doom and gloom.

For the last month or so we haven't had heat in the house. It hasn't been too bad. Yes, it's cold, but it's not too bad. Yet. Even when it snowed on Halloween it was OK. I have a space heater in my bedroom, so when I'm there I'm nice and cozy, but when I'm in the bathroom or the kitchen, it's not that great. I got in the habit of skipping breakfast most days to avoid being in the kitchen for too long.

But winter is coming, and holy shit, I guess no one can really say that anymore without thinking of Game of Thrones. It's like when Spike said, "Who you gonna call?" on Buffy.

Anyway, cold weather is on its way, and there's no way we can get through the season without heat, so I called a guy today, and he confirmed for me what I've long suspected: the furnace is fucked. FUCKED. Somehow it got full of water, and a circuit board is fried, and of course a new one is going to cost a lot of fucking goddam money.

Thankfully there's a monthly payment plan, but at the same time I really don't want to deal with this. Chiefly among my reasons is the fact that I have no idea how long we're still going to be here. I could be paying for this fuckin' thing for no good reason at all if the bank decides to kick us out, say, in the spring. I'm getting bent over for this?

Goddammit. My brother mentioned there might be a warranty on the furnace. He says it's fairly new, but I don't remember us getting a new furnace a few years ago. I hope he's right. I don't really want to do this, but if I must, and I suspect I must, then I will.

So yes, doom and gloom. And I'm going to need some help. If you've ever been curious about my books, now's the time to buy. Check out my website for all the relevant links. And what the hell, I said I was going to stop editing stuff for other people, but do you need an editor? I'm flexible on prices. Let me know, and we can talk. Jesus God, maybe I should start an OnlyFans. Put on some hot pants and pick a corner on the Sleaze Strip . . .

If you buy Strip, Trail of Blood, Pavlov;s Bitches, 6669: Demon Porn, John Holmes Vampire Slayer, Dong of Frankenstein and Other Pornos You Can't Jerk It To, It Changes a Man and the Audible version of Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks, I will get paid the quickest. Next tier of swiftness is Tales of Questionable Taste, Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks, And Jesus Came Back and Blood. Coming in last are Tales of Unspeakable Taste and The Life and Times of Hieronymus Aloysis Ziege. If, you know, you're interested in knowing how fast you'd be able to help me.