I used to write the truth, then smooth it out, tone it down, and try to make it plausible. Then my ex made a convincing case against chronicling my life as a train wreck. She claimed my time would be better spent trying to write about who I want to become. "Write myself a destiny." She said it because she wanted me to become happy . . . Fuck happiness. Happiness writes white. It does not show up on the page. First I think I have to excise my past. No amount of liquor or drugs seems to get rid of the ghosts that haunt me. The ghosts have become buddies with the monkey on my back. I think the monkey might have substance abuse issues himself. Even if I did manage to chase away my demons there might nothing left over . . . If a better me is the goal, maybe I should consider exercise and eating right, or even eating solid food in general before tackling a novel. On second thought . . . where to begin?