HARRISBURG, PA.
"Lost Somewhere Between the Earth and My Home"
The Pennslyvania Turnpike churns slowly on this Sunday morning. Fuck, the last thing I knew it was Saturday night. It's the wee hours...the time between when a gratuitous night turns into a regretfull morning.
The motel no-tell was quiet. The blinding overhead lights of the liquor store up the street were a bit louder. My mind screamed as the door chime announced my entry into the church of the shattered dreams.
Fullfilling my family history, I was like my father and his father before him ( claims are out there that my mom's mom was a juicer too) I'm getting a bottle of vodka. Skyy? Ketel One? whatever....Pride of fuckinging Baltimore will do. I've been driving all night, I need a snootful.
The crusty old fuck behind the scratched bullet proof glass gave me that look. The "I know yr a fucking drunk like me baby" look. The nod. the man to man to alcoholic..."yeh baby... have a good time" fuck you look.
Fuck that old fuck. I'm not a fucker like he is.
The sounds of sex swindle surround me in this den of fast fucks. The Motel Six has more gallons of love shot upon it's stained sheets than one could imagine. l'm recovering from post gig withdrawl.
The rest of the band is getting laid. I'm getting drunk. What town are we heading to next. What girls will they fuck? What liquor stores will I get the "look" in?
The sounds of the highway mingle between the ice cubes of my cordial of denial. The clinking of the ice blobs are blurring my senses. Just what the doctor ordered.
The girl at the bar after our gig told me I had nice eyes. She dug the music. I said goodbye to her and hello to the old fuck in the liquor store.
A bottle will never let me down. Never has never will.
Rock music has left me fucked. the world has denied me my due.
"Lost Somewhere Between the Earth and My Home"
The Pennslyvania Turnpike churns slowly on this Sunday morning. Fuck, the last thing I knew it was Saturday night. It's the wee hours...the time between when a gratuitous night turns into a regretfull morning.
The motel no-tell was quiet. The blinding overhead lights of the liquor store up the street were a bit louder. My mind screamed as the door chime announced my entry into the church of the shattered dreams.
Fullfilling my family history, I was like my father and his father before him ( claims are out there that my mom's mom was a juicer too) I'm getting a bottle of vodka. Skyy? Ketel One? whatever....Pride of fuckinging Baltimore will do. I've been driving all night, I need a snootful.
The crusty old fuck behind the scratched bullet proof glass gave me that look. The "I know yr a fucking drunk like me baby" look. The nod. the man to man to alcoholic..."yeh baby... have a good time" fuck you look.
Fuck that old fuck. I'm not a fucker like he is.
The sounds of sex swindle surround me in this den of fast fucks. The Motel Six has more gallons of love shot upon it's stained sheets than one could imagine. l'm recovering from post gig withdrawl.
The rest of the band is getting laid. I'm getting drunk. What town are we heading to next. What girls will they fuck? What liquor stores will I get the "look" in?
The sounds of the highway mingle between the ice cubes of my cordial of denial. The clinking of the ice blobs are blurring my senses. Just what the doctor ordered.
The girl at the bar after our gig told me I had nice eyes. She dug the music. I said goodbye to her and hello to the old fuck in the liquor store.
A bottle will never let me down. Never has never will.
Rock music has left me fucked. the world has denied me my due.
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(My tongue is planted firmly in my cheek, I just like scaring you with my overreactions, heh!)