UN SANE

Current mood: Disgusted

Jiminy crickets, it would appear the time has come to let all of this just frikin' go. I get new teeff today, and this is just about the best thing happening at the moment. Imagine that, new teeth, lets all go out and celebrate. Yes, indeed, lets all go out.

I went out last night... at just about the exact time I should have gone to sleep. Sleep, now that's a novel idea, can someone please describe to me just how one goes about getting sleep. This elusive elixir called sleep has now alluded me for two solid months. Or perhaps, I've been alluding it. Yes, maybe this is all self inflicted, maybe I really am, as many of my friends claim just a chicken fried retard, a frikin' douchepoodle wallowing in my own luke warm musty gunky bath water.

un sane

How is it this old carcass of mine knows to drag itself off the couch each morning to trudge-trundle itself down the garbage strewn street... down into the dirty ol' hole? How is it that I do this against all desire to just stay there wrapped in my comfy cosy blankets in front of the big ol' TV that plays nothing but all the shows I am just dying to see? Where did I learn to light a cigarette with my eyes closed? How come there's always a beer with a twist off cap or an easy open pop top tin tab sitting in my fridge box? Who put this love in my belly?

AND who stopped playing the songs I really really really liked?

A long time ago, I used to think of the things I was going to do. I still do, but now I seem to spend almost as much time thinking about the things I have yet to get to. I find this to be quite frightening. While at the same time I am encouraged by the fact that I seem to be doing more, I am also weighted down by the constant dread that there just may not be enough time. Time is something I need to eject; now is the time... now is the time to go rooting around the ol' CD pile and find that one song that used to, and will, once more, make me sad enough to be happy again. [insert silly Joy Division rotunda HERE, bitch]

I really do miss feeling that brick-bat-in-the-face feeling of someone else's despair, feel the kitten whipped sting of some kid "joe singa song writer's" boyish "I just lost my gal" babble. I'd like to dump this foolish hidy-ho crap that's been clouding an old old mind with thoughts of things way long past... things so over cooked they smell more of rotten punk-assed dirty socks than... than well, green fucking eggs and ham.

Get it?

This is done, go away now.