I have betrayed myself

Once again dear friend we are at a point that we never should have reached. It should never have come to this.

The mornings are always the same. The feel of paper against my cheek on the pillow. I lied the mornings aren't always the same, sometimes there is no pillow and sometimes the cool feel of glass constrasts with the crisp paper. I'd drink coffee but I don't have the patience to build up the tolerance, and besides mugs can be put to better use.

I have embarked upon this adventure into the digital age despite being a character destined to be left behind in the era when people cared about paperbacks and saw movies for their dialogue. It had to happen, the slow trudge of deciphering through endless reams of typwritten notes written in a drunken stupor was becoming unproductive, I was losing money. Besides people have started to give a fuck about paper again. I miss the smell of typwriter ink in the mornings though.

People still think that the life of a PI is Chicago, drinking and cool fast talking dames but the fact is that I am stuck in the worst place on earth and I my work has stripped me of any of the social skills I had previously possessed. Drinking, proper drinking, is a must for any man that requires the use of his brain so I suppose I can say I am a third of what you could expect.

I still fall in love. At least my typwriter says so.