I am one tired Son Of A Bitch. Fatigue and lack of consumption and delusion lick at my heels and I am beginning to feel like the poor sorry bastard above! I think the quote on the card does right by me, my existence, and my breathing being of heart beat.

                                              

It is funny how we think of stages and periods of our lives and what each little sectional/pull-out world provides us beyond an unsatisfying night of rest. Lumpy, thin mattresses with bars in our backs aside, we do find the adventures of life’s couch surfing a relevant series of re-reads and revisits enough to supply our daydreams with enough napalm to torch the modern world, now don’t we?

Yes, that is right, napalm to inject thought, to praise re-birth, to contemplate destruction and all the other causes and definitions that we chaw on, day in and day out. Nothing a good screw wouldn't unfold or unfurl!

Our intertwined worlds of ‘who was that’ and ‘why were they here’ moments cascade into a mirage of un-separating droplets creating the frothy foam of the barrel bottom that licks our heels around every stepping corner. Coincidence and consequence don overcoats of tweed and carry plastic badges to shove in our faces with every move we make.

Like DNA, our realties collide and combine into an incest ridden globe or gorge and grind that gyrates into gelatinous gauntlets of garish gaunt; guaranteed to guide our gilded lily to guided gorges of garrulous gripe and glee. Yes, far too many ‘G’s’ to want in a two sentence paragraph! For a second, this paragraph was looking like ‘Tha Hood’!

‘Tha Hood’ is where this conversation with no one goes. I am missing my youth, my free-wheelin’ days of yum-yum-eat ‘em up and down/the bastard down with a bottle of something to make the lines snort up quicker and the pills settle easier(the parties would go for days and the women would smile). I am missing the crazy sex. I am missing the no consequence moments of self-indulgence. I long for the days and hours of senseless self-destruction.

They are gone.

No more. No mas.

At least I still remember the fashion and the soundtrack.

Bring them back before I die.

Can I be the 90 year old man who lights up a Pall Mall and snorts a line of Peruvian Pink, with a gummer to boot, before they throw me in the box?

Just make sure that you all stomp down hard on the dirt after they shovel over because I will, WILL, claw my way back up to party.

Nothing says ‘lovin’ like a ghost with an addiction!

                                                        

I suppose I should just dance on and be myself, as it hasn’t really done me too wrong in the past. I do alright, I survive, I smile; I do tend to have great sex! I will do a dance to that and know that all things do work out and that I am an active role-player in my reality working out just fine!

SMILE

Be good and Godspeed …