pantsonfire

i'm drunk and aware of everything. sure. my spelling may be off, but i have the faint on in the background, so it's alright. right? the commodore is a haven for free drinks. rolling stones music is pulsing through the walls. i fight it, cranking the volume high. lost love is coming back for it's legal obligation. i'm okay with that. i have a bottle and 12 cans to see me through. i'll wake up vile and pungent, just for her. there's no hurt, but i feel the need to be the star in her play. i will play the drunkard, the shit, the drain clog. ten hours. can i sleep? no. the rednek next door listens to black flag and respect turns to admiration. bombs fall somewhere and i contemplate voting for nader. what is the long run? should we let bush run the country even more into the ground so we have a feingold in 2008? that is what i contemplate. another shot, another beer, the soundtrack of the past plays. i wonder why i don't groove on today's scene. i'm 27, almost 28. is it too late to be somebody? my legend couldn't hold his whiskey tonight. what is that guy thinking? life is a pie chart, and there's a four color theorem somewhere and it all fits like oj's glove. i'm replacable, complete, but without that one crucial part. anatomy is claustrophobia. no more thoughts, only base feelings, animal energy, and fuck the gods - no! FIST the gods because everything is bullsjit except the bottle i drink from. sweet sweet nectar. heaven is a generous bartender.

-joey