Thursday, June 2, 2011
God Damn the UPS man!
Stress in its entire tight tooth grinding, brow bending glory, is a hard pill to swallow. There ain’t shit you can do about it. You just got to knuckle under and take it long, hard and without lube until it has time to pass. But in the interim you are its bitch and you will, no matter how tough you are, end up calling it daddy.
I know what I am talking about on this topic. I am stresses whore, its patsy, its emotional fuck toy. No matter what I know about the outcome of a situation anything short of perfect execution and I’m bent over a barrel like a tool.
Lately, or at least over the last year, I have been able to keep that sloppy pimp from crawling out of its dark corner and start dancing on that well lit stage that I keep well maintained for such fruitless emotions. Dancing around frothing at the mouth and tripping over its big web toed feet like some dirty drunk floozy grappling for attention. If you acknowledge it, it doesn’t go away…it will always want more.
You can’t feed its waning ego or you will just leave it taking up all you time, space and filing its all encompassing need for omnipotence. It’s Paris Hilton with rabies, spending all its time trying to be important…even though it isn’t…at all!
Stress has been following me around like some mutant puppy. Waggin’ its tail and always underfoot, grappling for this wanna-be country bumpkin’s attention she is starting to wear me down. I gazed into those alluring eyes one time too many and she had me.
But forge on we must. Trying to keep that ruthless mother fucker at bay becomes your full time occupation. Set your sites on the far horizon and let the chips fall where they may. Thick skinned and nail like teeth you have to fake a complacent persona. Nothing matters; nothing matters…everthing is coming unspooled.
Dance motherfucker dance and every second you curse the God Damn Fed Ex guy! There ain’t nothing you can do, ain’t nothing you can say, many a good man has died here.
You go about your day to day existence in hopes that the pop off valve will release some of the pressure that is driving your frontal lobe crashing into the back of your skull. Relief usually comes on two wheels, but my bike is down. I have to just adjust to living in a pressure cooker!
Just about everyone that has come in actual contact with me over the last week has been told to fuck off in one form or another. Whether I meant it or not it’s just the way things are panning out. I’m creating my own kind of pop off valve. I’ll apologize when it’s all over with.
With dust on my tongue and a dwindling bank account the plans for the upcoming festivities are set and reset manically. A quick walk around the block and then back to the studio where all the demons are hiding. The end is in sight, the tunnel is brightening. One way or another this will be history. Have a nice day!