My Hemorrhoid

The new name for my one man Hammond Organ Band is Hemorrhoid.
And speaking of, I took Saturday night off and called it Disability because I could barely walk and I had already worked 49.3 hours for the week and they frown on server overtime. That said, at this, the cool break of Monday afternoon, I'm a bit better, somewhat tired, and completely at a loss.

To my reader:

Suffice it to say I did not make it into the CoOp because, as a dear friend so candidly put it, Diversity Hates Me. I can deal with that. It's fucked but so is our context and severity begets severity. That's just catch up. Did I mentioned I shaved my head a few weeks ago to scare away chipmunks with my red locks tossed into the garden? They laughed.

I could use a clean room these days. I feel as though I'm in need of spacial sobriety: my room is a sloshy mess and so is my car and I can't seem to read and this is my weak attempt at writing. Give my life B12 because I can't turn a jar lid anymore. What posits me in this place? A partnerlessness? I've whined enough about having no one to read in bed with, so what of it. I would be a dull hermit. Take away my stimulations and I turn gray and flowerless. A plant in springtime trapped under a plank of wood. No light no glory. I'm a needy little planet. But I doubt you aren't. Still, in this round equation friendly age I'm the one actually buying roadside lemonade from middle class kids because I was once that little homo trying to bring in the business with my cartwheels. So I tell them here's 5 bucks, get out of here as fast as you can.