all made up with nowhere to go

I am currently reading the Paul Trynka biography of David Bowie, and I'm already annoyed with it*. I haven't even got to the portion of the book (of which there is much) that he spends wanking over Bowie's career in the seventies.

What I said in this old entry back in 2016 still holds true. Spoilers: the last three decades of Bowie's career are reduced to a very slim section of the book. THREE DECADES. I really can't articulate how much this infuriates me.

I can't wait to get to "Scary Monsters was his last good album!!!!111!" [/sarcasm]

I'm going to keep reading it, though, because it is readable, and my massive feelings of spite are giving me ideas for some writing, so yay? (All my fiction writing of the last five years or so seems to be spite fuelled, and I have no idea why!)


*Well, I say it, I mean people in general.

~

I don't have a right lot else to say. The last week has felt like it lasted about five years, I am still in the same place in Dark Souls that I was the last time I posted, and I had a migraine the other day that made me feel like an out of phase CRT TV. But I'm sleeping all right at the moment, and that is a hecking blessing.

Now I should go and get something to eat because it's way past eating time.