sometimes the windshield, sometimes the bug..

Today I am definitely the bug. I do not know why.
The world turns and everything burns. Is it the weather? The rumble in my chest as the virus hits and turns my sinuses into a disgruntled union?
I am recording a cd with Greg as Happy Puppet Children Syndrome, and it is turning out to be not so bad. Maybe even good. The art collective is churning with promise and ambitions for finding a performance/practice/etc space. Work is good. Money is scarce but nothing out of the ordinary. No one else has died this month. So far.
What's with the doom and gloom..fingers finding hollow solace in booze and ears demanding the Ipod to replay More Elliot Smith! More Swans! More Sad Shit!
I don't know. I am fucking worthless as far as the social interaction goes, though. Fuck. I need the South. I need collard greens. Waffle House. Kudzu.
I just want to leave.
I want to burn all my bridges and throw my dishes..because I'm always making wishes
on
two stars eclipsed by too much sky..
If I had an epitaph it would read: "eh...fuck it."