My individual posts are subject to updates...

I would trim my finger and toe nails, but I just don't have it in me.

Update: Threw my toe out. Not sure what I did. Toe stuff, I guess.

This will up the level of difficulty for trimming the nails, which already requires alcohol, naproxen, a clean rag for the blood, and tears...but perhaps I am being overly dramatic.  Every once in a while, they don't bleed.
And I wonder, can I remove them myself?

Sorry.  Let me explain...and I say that because I have been told several times that explaining yourself is a weak position for a man, and a writer. (insert appropriate obscenity).
I laugh at these quaint notions.

It is 2 am.  My toe woke me up. I am hoping to finish this later today. I might be a little pissy, to say the least.

THERE IS NO EASY WAY.  There is no formula for success. There is, or was, a formula for doing ok.  Right now, even in the USA, if you busted your ass til you were 65, or you did nothing, you could easily still end up with zero to pass to your children. Your fathers way may not work.
But if you do not approach life like everyone else, you will be beaten over the head by a system that says you took the easy way out. 
It is brutal.
I would say , you took the only possible way out.

I am refusing to acknowledge the current world situations in my writings. From my point of view, it is obvious what is going on. I would suggest you all hug those grandkids.
I don't discuss family in this blog.
So I offer you odd chunks of what I think looks like narcissistic blather, hoping that I leave a clue that an astute reader will pick up on, signifying that it is not my future I am worried about.  It never was.

Now, where were we...

My psoriatic nails, skin and joints? Co-morbidity?  How bout we all try to figure out how we can rebuild the world after this....cause we are already in someone else's version.

10 AM
It does ramble a bit, doesn't it?   Good. I don't like books or movies that don't challenge your thought process. Why would I write like that? I am not here to appease the reader. PICK UP YOUR GAME.    I am that guy that holds court outside a bowling alley, telling one story that segues into ten, and gets you back to all of them, if time allows. I have been told I am the one that is off and can't tell a story.
This may be true in another ten years of medications, but for the most part, I operate on a larger playing field than you have been trained for. That is not grandiose, it is more of a penalty than a gift. There is a small audience that understands and is interested in that. I write for me and those interested.   The rest of you have a myriad of easy to follow tales to regale yourselves with. I would suggest that the greatest author of our time was Dr. Seuss, and you go reread his work for your adult self.  Many books for the youth were not for youth.

Complexity is a bitch. Things are rarely what they seem. Why read, or watch a movie, where everything is what it seems. Isn't that hypnosis?

I walked home from the bowling alley one night. I was fifteen, and past curfew. Heck, it was probably two in the morning. I crossed the railroad tracks next door, and heard rustling in the grass. I was used to a little dog barking at me in front of this little house, and thought surely he would bite me in the middle of the night.  Who would blame him?
Then something ran over my feet, and sprayed me in the face. I may have screamed from the burning sensation. Porch lights came on everywhere as I saw the blurry skunk run away. Someone came outside and quickly retreated.
I walked ten blocks to a convenience store a friend worked at.  I opened the door with the wind behind me and ten people told me to get out.  I heard my friend laughing in disgust say, "I'll call your mom". 
He greatly enjoyed waking my mom to tell her I had been sprayed a skunk.

To this day, the smell of skunk may as well be roses. It doesn't bother me at all.

I can tell all of you a proper story. I would rather tell one of you ten raw, intertwined  stories.