I don't particularity have anything to say, or at least not anything I'm willing to say on a public blog, but I have the urge to write none the less. I am sitting here after staying up way too late and sleeping way too little. My mind is a little fogged over from alcohol use last night and drug abuse this morning. (ok so it's not really that I'm abusing the drugs, it's more like the drugs abuse me. Oh get your head out of your ass, they're all prescription) I seem to have found myself once again in that place where post transplant I want to go out and live wild and carefree and do stupid things.

Why is it that doing stupid things is what makes us feel alive? Why is it that we crave stupidly risking life after barely escaping death on a basis that wasn't stupid or avoidable? Somewhere deep inside I am certain I still have a common sense meter which makes me stop after a drink and a half (half a drink more than my limit) and makes me still get up and take my medications even when I know I don't want to either get up or take the drugs.