Monday, September 05, 2011
I started writing, not typing, this at 5:30 this morning, after I had already been awake for three hours.
I wok up this morning at 2:30 to the sound of my dog shivering. See, it's 49° outside and we can't turn the furnace on. It's been a lousy weekend. I got to hear about how I shouldn't have let Hanna go, as though I had a choice in the matter. Things I'm tired of hearing: "Did you talk to Hanna?" No, she doesn't want me to talk to her anymore. "But you just talked to her the other night?" Sure, but that just pissed her off more. I don't want to hear any more about grandkids and how great it would be to have them.
I want my life back to normal. That'll involve a case of Grain Belt and a pack of Lucky Strokes and falling down. I want to quit my job, but everyone who's not me and doesn't understand that in a time of chimpanzees, I'm a monkey and I don't want it anymore.
The hospital put me on an anti-depressant, which I've never wanted to be on because I don't like mind control pills. I think they put me on them because I believe I begged the doctors to allow me to die because I wasn't afforded any dignity in that place. I want to stop taking the drug because it's not helping at all. No, Mother's Little Helper doesn't make it okay that I'm not going to Fest.
I miss Fest. My first Fest, I bought that Frank Turner album after my fifth Strongbow because I saw this cute 4'6" girl carrying it. I then purchased it and my new English friends said "Oi, Guv! Vat's a great record, good on ya, Brov!" I'll miss those guys and the alligator burritos and kickball with Mustard Plug and arepas.
The thing that worries me the most about my current condition isn't whether or not I'll get better enough for Hanna to come back, because, lets face it, she ain't coming back. No, I'm worried that I'll never skate again and that my goalie skills will deteriorate. Currently, my glove side is useless, but it used to be that if you were going stickside, you had better pull out some Gretzky type shit. It used to be they'd call me Jesus because I saved.
said Tommy T. at 6:51 PM - #
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I wok up this morning at 2:30 to the sound of my dog shivering. See, it's 49° outside and we can't turn the furnace on. It's been a lousy weekend. I got to hear about how I shouldn't have let Hanna go, as though I had a choice in the matter. Things I'm tired of hearing: "Did you talk to Hanna?" No, she doesn't want me to talk to her anymore. "But you just talked to her the other night?" Sure, but that just pissed her off more. I don't want to hear any more about grandkids and how great it would be to have them.
I want my life back to normal. That'll involve a case of Grain Belt and a pack of Lucky Strokes and falling down. I want to quit my job, but everyone who's not me and doesn't understand that in a time of chimpanzees, I'm a monkey and I don't want it anymore.
The hospital put me on an anti-depressant, which I've never wanted to be on because I don't like mind control pills. I think they put me on them because I believe I begged the doctors to allow me to die because I wasn't afforded any dignity in that place. I want to stop taking the drug because it's not helping at all. No, Mother's Little Helper doesn't make it okay that I'm not going to Fest.
I miss Fest. My first Fest, I bought that Frank Turner album after my fifth Strongbow because I saw this cute 4'6" girl carrying it. I then purchased it and my new English friends said "Oi, Guv! Vat's a great record, good on ya, Brov!" I'll miss those guys and the alligator burritos and kickball with Mustard Plug and arepas.
The thing that worries me the most about my current condition isn't whether or not I'll get better enough for Hanna to come back, because, lets face it, she ain't coming back. No, I'm worried that I'll never skate again and that my goalie skills will deteriorate. Currently, my glove side is useless, but it used to be that if you were going stickside, you had better pull out some Gretzky type shit. It used to be they'd call me Jesus because I saved.
said Tommy T. at 6:51 PM - #
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