The fries are salty with the tears of regret and the snot of stupidity.

Partied out in 99'.



That's right. Those little fried sticks of death are salted with crying eyes. Maybe not all of them - but at least a few batches.




It's the dogged days of the working stiff. If my 15-year-old-self heard me complaining - I'd probably punch myself in the 'natch. In another reality I am 15 - hauling rancid kitchen trash from the Waffle House kitchen to the dumpster - sneaking a quick smoke. I probably just finished a 9 hour shift as a horrible short-order cook. My pal Rik is waiting for me in the parking lot and later I'll ride home with him - listening to Cannibal Corpse and trying to score a case of beer off an old drunk we both know. We'll go drink warm beer in my room and pee out the back window. Tomorrow I'll walk to work and do some variation of today.

In another reality.

In my real today - I worked a bullshit shift at a mind-numbing telephone answering service job. Then I watched several hours of Law and Order: SVU, pantless. The day ended with cathartic, sweaty band practice and beers. Cooked a cheap steak, ate it, pants back off, and worked on a mix cd.

I could stay up late and work on painting another satanic goat's head. Or I could end a decent day on the upturn, retire to the a/c frigid bedroom, and fall asleep with a book. Hell, I can do anything I want. Shitty job or not - it is summer, this is America, and I want to drink and spray paint and roller skate and play guitar and totally kill it. And I will!

Tomorrow. Probably. After work.