My hands are cold. To the touch. I shuddered when I placed my palm up against my cheek. Time for a doctor visit? Things definitely could be better health-wise.
Bad teeth. Fingers with little strength. Prostate pain.
Something is going to kill me. The suspects are starting to figure out their place on the lineup card.
I guess I’m supposed to care about that. To go rushing off to the doctor. But I’m not. And I’m not. Yeah, one day I’ll regret it. I’ll fall in love. Meet the woman of my dreams. Fall into the awesome-ist job on the planet. Finally break through and actually finish something that I started writing. Win the lottery, even.
Yet, I don’t feel bad about that.
The same way I don’t feel bad about eating shitty food. Well, shitty for you food. The same why I can watch really awful movies. The same way I can listen to the same song 43 times in a row and not get tired of it.
It’s just the way I’m wired.
That line just made me want to listen to The Clash. So, I’m going to get off my ass, stop tying stream of consciousness-ly and put it in the CD player….
The same line of insanity that has me listening to Rick James every morning/afternoon when I get up. No matter what. Yes, it would have made a lot more sense for me to pick Lucero, or the already mentioned Clash. Even The Faces or Johnny Thunders or The Kinks.
Instead, it’s Rick James. Street Songs. Every. Single. Morning. Without fail.
So far.
But I usually fail eventually. It’s a given. Death and taxes and all of that.
Same as falling off the wagon. Like tonight. It happens. It will always happen. I’m my dad’s son. Nothing I can do about it. I’m also my mom’s son. Which is why I’m shy.
Fuck that right?
Fuck you.
I was told today by the city editor that I needed to stop “dropping the F-bomb so much.” After a tirade of about 10 minutes where I “dropped” it, in the parlance of our times, probably 15 times.
Why?
Because I’m sick of hypocrites. I show up to work everyday and bust my ass. And I listen to my boss bitch about all the people who don’t bust their ass. And then I watch as he leaves early. Or sends pages with multiple errors on it. Or just doesn’t bother showing up at all.
Fuck it. Fuck You You Fucking Fucks.
Yep. Borrowing from blogs that are borrowing themselves. We’re all fucking plagiarists. Except those that cite. I cite. Do you?
I wish I had enough money to get in my car tomorrow morning and drive to Memphis. Why? No idea. Maybe I’ll meet a gal that plays stand-up bass. There has to be more than just three of them in the world, right?
Just wishful thinking.
I miss this feeling. The feeling of happy drunk. The before you’ve gone too far drunk. The life ain’t so fucking bad drunk.
I think maybe things are turning. I’m still a loser. That ain’t going to change. I’m fine with that. Really, always have been. Except in high school before I ever thought of that blonde as EXTREME (inside joke, don’t read into it.) Before I’d ever think that maybe, maybe I’d go out with a girl from my graduating class.
Stranger things have happened for sure.
If only I knew how to get my teeth fixed for nothing? Send in a tape to Extreme Makeovers? Hell, I’m sure that show has gone Queen by now. And if you don’t get that shitty reference, stop reading my shitty writing.
I’m feeling a bit of deadline pressure here. I love it. It’s 11:41 p.m., oops, 11:42 now. I’ve only got a few minutes left in this Saturday. Which means I’ve only got a few minutes left to get this posted on the old writing blog.
Does anyone really care? I saw that one of the members of my all-time favorite band read it the other day. Since I wrote about one of their songs. They’ve been on my other blog before. They must think I’m a silly fan. Or a pycho fan. Or just a fucked up fan. Or a good fan. The great fan.
It really doesn’t matter. I talked to them all once. And I don’t remember what I said. I was drunk. And mad at a redhead. Ha. Story of my life.
I guess so.
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