I'm not the broken man with but a shit covered penny to his name or the woman with more spilt womb than sense; I'm the fool with a f*cked up car questioning my sanity in the spill of glass on the highway. The jagged pieces got fury burning in the pit of my stomach; that fierce "I got this" lie I tell myself every night before the lights go out, and I'm sitting in the dark with only myself to blame. How the hell did the humdrum get me here?⁠
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I won't make the deadline today.  Fuck the deadline. I can't face the only topic coming to mind. I need to write that SOB out of course, get it gone, but all I can think about is the tire around my waist and that my knees hurt like a bitch -- If this is aging color me the fuck out, call me a cab and leave me alone. Spilt milk & sausage fests and all that follows is about as much sense as I'll make. ⁠
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Ah, tis good after all to be a little lunatic with a pinch of section. In honor of my melancholic madness and despair, see before you the grand old mare. ⁠
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