Despite it's blatant burden I've been doing as much as possible in this body:
This year so far, I've been to Paris, I've seen David Lynch's paintings, complete with teeny tiny flies in oily mausoleums, I've been to Amsterdam, I've experienced the concert of a lifetime; Sleepytime Gorilla Museum live in an intimate Jazz venue. I've ascended at 10ft a second in a 77000 cubic foot air balloon. I've had the best birthday ever. With my perfect girl. I'm having a good year, but what was painfully snug, now breaks all the tiniest bones of me. Pressure leads to frustration leads to low ceiling claustrophobia. I'm gonna fucking explode if I don't sort my shit out soon.
