It’s been a while since I last threw anything up on these digital pages, so here you go.
I’ve been floundering with another bout of depressive self-misanthropy over the past few weeks, and as Jake (the dog) always says (or at least implies with a look that only an aged bulldog on the spectrum can), “If you can’t NOT sound like a binge-eating 17 year old you after a weekend locked in your bedroom with a pile of Smiths CDs, a copy of The Air Conditioned Nightmare, and a highlighter; don’t say anything at all!”
Jake is very wise, despite being a grump-puss with 2 good legs, a tail like Karl Malden’s nose with an infected sunburn, and a brain the size of a rotting pea.
Sadly, I’m back like a herd of turtles; here are some photos from the few photo-creeps I’ve taken in recent weeks.
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Later.