So... return of "Le Noctambule"

So I haven't been posting an awful lot on here the past few months again. Yes, AGAIN. To say I lack the discipline to get some continuity in my blogs wouldn't be far off. I certainly wouldn't disagree, but let me tell you: I've been having a good 'ole time seeing the world go to ABSOLUTE shit and seeing much of what I thought was my life's work go down the drain.

Yes, hardships. I'm an upper class brat, a college dropout, a less-than-great writer and a worse musician, not much of an organisational talent, lacking in social skills and arrogant, too. Just a little selection of what defines being the Distorted Reflector these days. Suffice to say I've been better. The easy way out? Never speak of it again. Rather shoot the breeze with an automatic bullshit rifle. Thirty-six calibre small talk. Uncut social opium. Interactive lubricant on oil basis; do not ingest.

Swift cut to my drinking problems. I've been hitting the sauce about as hard as I've been hitting the Beat Generation for inspiration (def.: 1. Addictive ethereal substance lifting the corpus into a state of bliss 2. a software company; Leader in Visual Thinking and Learning). Next to my beard, a bottle of cheap whiskey is my favorite prop. People started perceiving me for a hobo at one point what with the scruffy (facial) hair and sombre demeanor and all, and I just didn't want to disappoint. Personally, I think I did a wonderful job method acting myself all the way to the bottom of the barrel. It does wonders for my Mojo though (insert Jay-Z reference here).



Irony (def.: 1. Side effect to mixture melancholia and cocaine, self-aggrandizement and pain, 2. Style of popular music containing a great deal of horns, flutes and other symphonic instruments.) : the craziest shit seems to happen when I haven't been drinking all that much. That's when I lock myself out of my house, pick up the craziest women, run into a pile of red-assed baboons jacking off in the dawn and join them in a game of charades or find myself lost in similar David Lynchian plots. Most of the time my drunken rampages simply amount to anecdotes of really, really dumb shit. Unfortunately I can still recall 98,7% of all dumb shit I've done in my life since I started drinking. It's not pretty.

So in the face of unemployment, inebriation, gloom and the sound Invitation To The Blues, how do I react? What is my directive for dire situations? Retract? Pity-plea? Masturbation? Looking infinitely at my own belly button. FUCK NO. I'm going head first. If I'm going down the drain, why not tag along for the ride? It might get a little awkward, and painful at times. But I'd rather be completely blunt about things than keep up appearances. I'm not asking for your pity, just enjoy these scribblings as if you've never met me.

My name?

Noctambule le Clochard, your distorted reflector.