Where Did All The Tiny Dancers Go?

Sunday, at exactly  12 o' clock (commonly referrred to as "noon") I woke up.

I had less  anxiety than the day before, to a degree, because of the 14 dollars that I had split with Jacob after busking for maybe 2 hours with him the night before.

I had messed  up my finances and run out of money sooner than in any previous month since I started getting "retirement" benefits from Social Security.

There were too  many instances of me staying in to drink wine and stuff my face, rather than going out to busk, with at least a whole week of "90% chance" of rain hanging over us having factored into those decisions.

The tendonitis, which  I'm guessing it is, in my left ankle has been lingering, and I can just barely put all my weight on that foot.

I hesitate to  go to any emergency room, though I might do so just to get some kind of diagnosis through x-rays or whatever else they would use, and then eschew whatever chemicals might be prescribed to me, in favor of natural remedies; from websites that I'll have to find using Results Hunter, or Duck Duck Go, which will load very slowly, perhaps after a 'no internet connection' episode or two and play with glitches and a lot of buffering.

Before returning to  Google to undoubtedly find, at the top of my feed, some video entitled: "Why (beet juice extract) is a ripoff and (extra virgin olive oil) a scam and you should immediately see your doctor, who will talk some sense into you!"

It is incumbent  upon me to go see Elizabeth, clean her cat boxes, and accept some dry cat food and litter from her, for Harold, whose fault it is not that his owner spent money on wine and THC gummies that could have went towards those items...

It was the  breaking of a string, without my having a brand new replacement which curtailed the busking session, which otherwise might have gone on for another half hour and, I don't doubt, another 20 bucks for us to split. This being the global effect of my excesses over the past couple weeks. At least I got the rent paid, replenished my kratom supply, got a 35,000 puff nicotine vape (I'm counting them), and stuff for the house like toilet bowl sanitizers, and a couple new journal tablets and pens, as well as some 'disposable income' type purchases, like a couple vinyl albums, using money that, I knew at the time I would wind up wishing I had back...

I was able  to accomplish a goal that I have set for myself and ran through a new song about a dozen times, then wrote the lyrics out in the hours before going out to busk, so that a brand new, previously unheard at the Lilly Pad, piece was performed, with myself only missing (ad lib-ing) about half of those lyrics.

This gives me  a really good feeling; and drives away the imagined sense that people in Lilly's neighborhood are thinking: ...not this song again whenever I do one of the dozen or so from a set list that's growth became stunted after I fell into a slothfulness engendered by realizing that I could drink a few shots of brandy, smoke a bowl of weed, then just "auto-pilot it" through the same set of songs.

A busker should  avoid becoming sick of hearing the songs that she is playing, because the mood is contagious. Plus, it shuts down the connection between thought and emotion. This is inevitable, and why Elton John said he is able to feed off the enthusiasm of the audience for the material, but has long ago stopped envisioning tiny dancers in his head while up on stage...

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