Here is a place for funk, i. e. fear of my soul, expressed by multiple means, mainly words.

I'm not funky, as people may think if they read a couple of sentences in this blog that busts. I do not sway, neither do I tilt. Even if I'm drunk as hell. But that I do not remember well. When I'm drunk, I mean. Because sometimes I feel that I do shake my head and my ass, though the earth itself rolls and pitches beneath my feet as hell.

Anyway, the funkiest thing I've ever experienced is terror. Yes, horror. So, the main theme of this chapter is what the hell we're afraid of in our lives?

Be happy, in other words.