So Thomas is back on. I know, I know. I said I ditched him forever and two seconds later he was back in the scene – the story of my life. I’m a little bipolar when it comes to this novel. Sometimes I’m flying high and everything works and other times I’m crawling around on the floor clutching my sides like I’m in some Bukowski novel. I feel I’m running out of time. I have ideas, I have desire, I have incomplete stories to work on. But the bloody novel takes up all my energy. Love/hate/love/hate/love/hate. It goes on like that all the time: a perverse cuckoo clock counting down the minutes. Meanwhile, spring is around the corner. I want to make room for the new flowers but all I have are these damned magic beans. They sit in the soup can taking up the sunlight, refusing to blossom.