Whine.

Why is it, that in the cold everything,anything,is too much trouble?

My right knee swollen with fluid.My corpse throwing up roadblocks to what I would like to be believe is my eventual resurrection.Pft! Who scores the happily ever afters? My grid is shutting down when I need to be cognisant and promoting my mediocre talent.Thank fuck I have amazing people playing with me is all I am gonna say.

I am so hard on myself.Received a barrage of kindness last night from an esteemed musician that I think highly of and I felt like asking the bearer of such gifts if they were really sure if they had the right reciprocant. The Syrian dude at the 7-11 is also kind to me when I go in for my nightly diet Dr Pepper that I shouldn’t be having anyway. “Why is you so nice?” he says in a voice tinged with sand and mortar attacks,blinding white teeth and curiosity. I turn to see who he is talking to,making a great pantomime out of it,wide Clara Bow eyes and a hand up to my mouth.

“Me?” I mouth incredulous.He claps his hand with delight and huffs a great expansive laugh so full of joy that it makes me wonder if I am ever going to feel anything similar ever again.He gives me my gum for free.I mooch out into the night,goodwill rapidly deflating, with a head full of storm clouds and a busted toothed gob full of mint.

I am watching myself fail and I am not stopping it.Every night I pass out with the best intentions,lists written,steely resolve.I was saying to a stoic friend last night that I no longer know what I am aiming for,what may make me happy.( and the word was made flesh…) The moon slung low in sparse cloud, malevolent and orange shone down over my proclamation and sneered.My knee throbbing like a misplaced heart,my midsection looking like a shar pei’s back beneath my layers of manky winter clothing ,my hair lank,my skin pizza.Not ugly enough to make it interesting.Oh no! No such luck mama. Just your average fat generic white trash burnout.

But in dreams I find flowers and the soles of my feet are soft.My mind aligned clean and unharmed with my machine and then I wake up to my mountain of mediocrity.No matter where I go there I am.

Can I tell you how hard I tried and how far I went and that I feel like a failure because my best,and back then I thought my best was pretty damn spanky,was not enough? Loveless Madden. That could be my handle if I was a cowboy I reckon. (“Who’s that yonder by the hitchin’ post?” ) Sounds like it should be accompanied by a thin harmonica wailing over the canyons and buttes.Today I wish was a drunk.Yeah,that would be just the ticket.Or how about a card punching methadone drone chained to the bureaucratic wheel maybe? A manic tweaker wrapped in paranoia and scant sinew? I don’t know,anything. Anything to not be here.

These light-less eyes peering out of a skull that I don’t know .This head ,this face that I don’t recognize. Giving too much will cripple you,strap callipers to your caring spirit causing it to pitifully limp and drag its good intentions a beat behind the band. (“Ohhh baby,you is going to hell.”) Turn you into one of Jerry’s kids.No march of dimes for my broken ass. And I consume and consume to fill the place that love once filled.Then I starve and starve to punish my base instincts and glaring humanity.I eat or fast, I shop or steal things that I don’t need,clothes that I wont wear because it all feels like a fucking lie without him.I wanted him to want me forever to find some beauty in me so that I could see it in myself.No such luck.( Who is she? Is she hot? or did you go back to your last port of call?.) I cant believe that I get so jealous.I never have been before but the thought of it makes me fucking crazy.

This looks like nothing but a bad whiny journal entry. I don’t seem to have the right set of skills on hand today.I am blaming the moon (“Sorry ma’am”) where I should be blaming my glaring lack of talent.

Bit all my nails down to play guitar today and grew wildly frustrated with tunings.Could not find my feet.The whole world has the same lingering cough at the moment and I spit soft green.I should not have dared myself into playing again but it’s too late now. My guitarist canceled on me due to a migraine and heavy painkillers so now I have a whole week of not jamming ahead of me yet again.The stress. I have more invested on the decor of the evening than I do in my ability to deliver anything worthwhile.

I focus on the wrong things,the dead things,the shit that I failed at.I am sick with it.I thought that I was bigger,more singular.I am no such thing.

They shoot horses don’t they?