Friday, November 24, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


It's wrapped around your neck. It's in the center of your teeth. It's in the trials and tribulations of your poor mind as you sleep. Fuck your conscience, utter nonsense, this squalid business of catharsis? I find it laughable. Cut another line and cue the tape, I'm ready for my solo. 

Your eyes were empty sockets, and I smiled by it, smiled too white because of the fucking black light. What the fuck is up with that? Now? That's some freak show shit. And if you scare me with the strobe again, I'll cut your heart out and eat it. 

Goddamn, the walls.

Why is everything you say soaked in bullshit and misery? Why am I even reaching for some meaningless approbation? Epiphany. Look at the bald monkeys dance.


Humanity? Insanity. 

We never had a chance. 


You judge your neighbors' oddities and indulge yours spasmodically. You get magazines in stacks, but only read them periodically. They're decoration. Like red death-fruit. If that's even true. 

Look at me, so cute. So astute. 

Now excuse me. I have ceased to amuse me. And I'm going to use this claw-hammer to fix the way the world's abused me.

Hammered. Sanguine. 

Watch while I drive the first nail in. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, November 17, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.



His eyes were half-closed, but that wasn’t what made them hard to look at. It was the color. Somewhere between grey and yellow. Not the color eyes should be. Not human eyes. But that’s the color they were. And you didn’t want to be disgusted, but you couldn’t help it. 

Just like you couldn’t help the fact that you tried not to breathe when you were in the room.
God. That room. Too white. Before someone got the smart idea to paint hospital rooms seafoam or pink or beige. That white room seemed an unfair contrast to the spoiled-milk eyes. Sick and scummy like old butter.

And it always ended the same way.

“Go on, Johnny. Give Grandpa a kiss.”

And you wanted to scream. I never even kissed the man when he was alive. And then you thought: “he’s still alive, idiot.” Then, “no, he isn’t, not really.” Everyone standing around waiting for you to put your lips on that sandpaper cheek. And you couldn’t explain. You’d loved the man. Actually flat-out loved him. Not like your Mom who tolerated him. Not like your uncle who hadn’t spoken to him in ten years.

This was not him anymore, and kissing had never been part of the bargain in the first place. And he was old. He didn’t even know where he was. You didn’t even want to be in the room. Hell, you knew he wouldn’t have wanted you in there. He would have wanted you outside, breathing the fresh air that was no longer an option for him.

But you kissed him. Because the alternative was too hard. And would require too much explanation. 

Let the skeletons stay in the closet.

You kissed him and thought, “when I grow up, I sure hope I’m not a big-ass hypocrite like y’all.”

And then everybody went to Dairy Queen.


#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, November 10, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


“Do you think the dead speak to us?”

Her head was canted to one side. Eyes colored with that film some old folks get. Her hair was white and thin … she had the smell, too. That dusty tooth-decay smell that seems like it’s surrounding you as soon as you get close to it. The question shook me a little. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t get shook too easy, but it was the way she said it – slow, calm – too slow, too calm.

“I don’t know if I ever thought about it … er … no?”

She smashed her fist onto the table with surprising force. It made the egg cups dance for a second. Knocked my juice glass onto the floor, but it didn’t break. Jelly jars are built for rough living. It didn’t even spill because I’d finished the juice first like I always do.

“What the hell kind of answer is that, boy? You don’t sound sure at all, but you’re sure sounding like it’s sure. How do you know?”

I wanted nothing more than to get up and walk out of the kitchen, past the green stove and the green fridge, straight out into the green yard where I knew Bullet would be waiting. But I was stuck.

“Well, I ain’t never heard no dead person talking to me.”

“You ever seen God, boy? Nope. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. You like to fish? How come you go fishing if you’re not sure that there are fish in the water?”

“But I am sure that there are fish in the water.”

“You catch a fish the first time you went? ‘Cause I remember you coming home with your Deddy. Crying. For a while. Saying there weren’t no fish to be caught.”

“It takes some time to learn.”

“But you’re prepared to tell me that the dead can’t talk after eleven long years on this planet?”

“Jeez, Gram. What are you so fired up about? I didn’t do nothing but sit down to eat breakfast.”

She looked shamed then. Or scared. Truth was, she looked like she was waiting to get punched in the face. That shook me, too. And, like I said, I’m usually pretty steady.

“I heard your Deddy last night. I wasn’t asleep. Maybe not all the way awake. You know that place right between the two? The one where if you wake up, your heart’s pounding and you can’t hardly fall back asleep?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I heard him. He said, ‘It’s OK, Mama. Wasn’t your fault.’”

“Well…”

“Well what? I never did nothing to that boy. Why’s he coming to me in the middle of the night telling me not to worry?”

“Gram, you might have imagined it. It might have been a dream. Hell, maybe it was him. Maybe they let you get drunk in heaven, and he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

She got that look again. Like she was mad. Like she was going to reach for something to swing at me. Then the whole table flipped. I swear I didn’t touch it, and Gram wouldn’t have had the strength, but it knocked her over. Twisted her.

She lasted a few months after that. Never was the same. She got weak. Then, she died. And you’re not going to believe me, and I don’t expect you to believe me. But the truth is the truth.

The night she died, when I was lounging in that small place between awake and asleep, trying to figure out how I felt about the whole thing, I heard his voice. And he wasn’t drunk one bit.

“It’s OK, son. Wasn’t your fault.”

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, November 3, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

The stream is maybe eight feet wide, but it’s deep under the tree on the opposite bank. You can see the bottom in your mind. You’ve mapped it out with lost lures and broken line and fish caught and released. You probably don’t have it perfect, but I bet you’re closer than you think. It’s been many years. You’ve stood, braced against the rushing water, for many hours. There are brookies in the stream. And you know where to find them. That seems both just and unjust.

So many things do.

But, today, it doesn’t matter. You don’t care about the fish; it’s about the ritual. Because the old man is dead, and that doesn’t make any kind of sense. But he wouldn’t want you listening to some bullshit preacher talking doggerel and nonsense. He’d want you here on the stream. And it’s where you can still feel him beside you. Still smell the cigars he smoked to keep the bugs away – even when there wasn’t a bug in sight. 

Sometimes, you gotta hold your vices tight.

You flip the bait into an eddy and watch it dance for a second before it sinks. Your finger on the line – you’ve done this a hundred times. A thousand. A million? A lot. A whole fucking lot. And this was the old man’s favorite spot. So, it is both surprising and expected when you feel the tap, tap, tap on the line. You set the hook gently, and then it’s all focus. Time disappears and it could have been thirty seconds or a minute, but suddenly you got a nice little brookie finning by your boot and, for a second, you don’t know what to do.

And that makes no sense. Until you think about it.

Who are you going to tell when you’re packing up the car? Who’s going to give a shit about one fish – even though the colors were so deep? So rich. No one cares. It’s just a fish. But he would have cared. He would have asked if you’d taken the barbs down. How much of the hook did the fish get? Did you have to take her out of the water?

The car is waiting where you left it, but it’s a truck because it’s yours. It’s not an old, brown Dodge Colt. It doesn’t smell like horehound. It doesn’t smell like anything. There are a few worms left in the can on your belt and you dump them by the car. Strictly for the birds. You hear him say it. And that’s enough. 

It’s a damn sight more than you would have gotten at church.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, October 27, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


No one knew what was under that tarp. No one except the old man, and you couldn’t get nothing out of him. He was like a rusted trap. Only you can’t use kerosene and mineral oil to clean up an old man. So, folks talked. Folks speculated. Most of us figured it was some kind of car. You had to know that. Probably. It was the right size for a car, but it didn’t add up. The man’s house was like one of them Lincoln Log sets after it’s been smashed to hell by some spoiled toddler. And it wasn’t like he was stranded. He had an old Chevy truck that beat the odds most days like near everyone in town. Nobody had two cars. 

Nobody.

It was one of those things people liked to toy with. End of the day. Everyone on their porches. Kids doped up on sun and fatigue. The men slipping bourbon into their sweet tea. The women pretending they didn’t see. They’d start with the rise in prices. Who was losing what part of their lives. But then they’d work their way around to the old man and his tarp. Tommy Johnson thought it was a spaceship. Lilith Earnest thought it was his sleigh – like he was Santa. A dirty, weird old Santa. Most people thought it was a pile of rusted shit. Or moldy wood. Some kind of trash. Something they could use to chip at the old man and his ways. He was queer. What did he have to hide?

Me? I didn’t have any earthly idea. But I wondered.

Usually, about the time that the first stars were coming out, the kids would be hustled to bed, but they’d go to sleep wondering. The adults would keep talking and eventually someone would have the balls to say it. What everyone else was thinking. “Guess we’ll find out when he dies…”

And then the old man did die. And people waited a few days. No one wanted to be the first. Seemed tacky. And we were willing to be a lot of things, but tacky was the worst thing you could be. It meant low class. Money or not. Chief Emery was the one who finally yanked that thing off, yellowed and dirty and grease-stained. Covered in bird shit. He did the pulling, but we were all in on it. It was like we pulled with one will. And, when the tarp hit the ground, we all covered our eyes.

Underneath the tarp was a bright red Buick convertible. Looked like it just come off the lot. Or out of the factory. And we were gobsmacked. When? How? No rust? Why? The kids wanted to touch it. The religious folks said the old man was the devil. Chief Emery didn’t know what the hell to do, but he was smart enough to keep folks away. Most just shook their heads. Devil or not, it was the nicest car they’d ever seen. And they spoke as one, heads wagging.


“Well, I’ll be damned.”

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, October 20, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

The shadows get longer and, still, you sit. You scratch your head and listen to the vast silence that isn’t one bit silent. You watch the herons dip and glide and you wonder if they’ll ever stop. You sure hope not. But it seems like everything is changing so fast. Shit’s on fire; shit’s flooding. The President is huffing and puffing, but really he’s doing nothing. Or doing the wrong things. Because he’s sure doing something. And you don’t like it. And the herons don’t give a shit.

But that’s just because they’re not sentient.

If we could make all the animals sentient, they’d storm the White House in droves. In flocks. In stampedes. In murders. In herds. It would be like the big, white house was Noah’s ark and the floods scared them all shitless.

But they just keep on keeping on. Witless. While we bear witness.

Meanwhile, we take the land and shit on it. We grin and think nothing of it. Didn’t we learn anything from the Exxon Valdez? From the Dust bowl? From the shit we used to spike the global punch bowl.

Your stomach is clenching up, so you watch the shadows creep and try to breathe. You need to get home, but can’t seem to leave. And your throat burns. Your eyes tear up. You try to pretend it’s the smoke, but smoke doesn’t hurt this much. And you feel like an ingrate because you got off easy. And so many are suffering. And at the top of the mountain, the Naked King is blustering.

So, you get on your bike and ride home. You hug small people and get scared. And you’re so grateful they’re small enough to remain mostly unaware.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, October 6, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

The room was empty, and he didn’t like it. Walls white; he didn’t like that either. It was too stark a contrast. White room, white walls. Inside the boy’s head there were exploding rainbows of pain and confusion. Inside his skull, every color pulsed. He could hear them. The grumbling blue, the shrieking red. The bright green threatening to split his head. He had been in rooms like this before. He even knew why. It was supposed to calm him down. He could not tell them about the maelstrom of sickness the whiteness created inside of him.

The terror.

He heard the voice, but he told it to shut the hell up. Then another voice.

DON’T CURSE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD.

He wrapped his arms around his body and held himself. He could smell himself.

DON’T BE A BABY! ONLY BABIES CAN’T GO TO THE BATHROOM BY THEMSELVES.

Oh, the colors were awful. Worse than anything. He could feel his face peeling away from his skull. Smooth. One clean sheet of pain.

HERE’S HOW YOU TAKE THE DECALS OFF, YOU LITTLE SHIT. SLOW, EVEN. YOU CAN’T RIP IT! I WON’T GET PAID FOR WORK LIKE THIS!

YOU’RE FUCKING RIPPING IT!!!

He poked his fingers into his eye sockets and watched the bursts of white. They distracted him. His pulse slowed as if by magic. Carefully, he put his fingers into his mouth. All of them. He soaked them and rubbed saliva into the place where his face-skin used to be. Lose some skin and make some more. That’s what the magic spit is for. Rhyming is for kids, what are you, retarded?

ARE YOU RETARDED?!?

Stop it. Breathe. Slow and easy. Like the decals. He could hear that voice, too. A woman. She spoke much more gently than the man. She tried to help him. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. His back felt warm like there was a hand on it. He jumped when he realized that there was. 

He backed into the corner and watched the young woman’s lips move. No sound came out. Or not the right sounds. There was a wailing sound. There were beeps and screeches and his breath in his ears. He could hear himself live. The boy turned his head to the side and vomit poured out of him, his man-mouth.


YOU’RE DIRTY! STOP BEING DIRTY! YOUR MOTHER CLEANS THIS FUCKING HOUSE!

The young woman was moving closer one small step at a time. She had one hand in the pocket of her jacket, and he knew what that meant. He pushed himself into the wall, thinking: I will climb this wall backwards like a spiderShe is small and she will never reach me. The colors started spinning, twitching. Orange, purple, yellow… He knew his colors. He knew them more than anything. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He knew that the woman’s hand would come out of her pocket, and he would have mere seconds before everything went black. He squeezed his eyes. Her shoes squeaked. White rubber, they were. White floor. When she got close enough…

Black. It would be black. Blank. It scared him, but it was better than the colors. He opened his eyes and smiled. Calm. Very. 

One more time around the merry.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 29, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.



He stood on the corner, cold rain dripping from his hat down the back of his neck, teasing. The breeze brought hints of garbage and rot from the alley, but the smell was almost comforting. It smelled like home. He pulled that idea out, turned it around. Played with it. Put it on the shelf. Let it ride. To be examined later. Yeah, boy, home smells like a garbage dump. For some reason, that made him smile.

He pulled a flat, glass bottle, wrapped in brown paper from his sport coat pocket and drank from it. It tasted like fire, but it wiped the smell away for a second. Pulled him further from home – to a place where he could think.

He’d been looking for the gash for two weeks now. Long after the cops gave up. Her husband was damn near frantic – had paid him ten grand in crisp hundreds, and he wondered about it. How deep would this run? How tight was the cliché? What were the sticking points? And who was he? 

A wannabe detective?

Naw, just a man who could do things in the neighborhood that other men couldn’t.

He knew she was alive. That was one of many differences between him and the cops. He also knew they’d never find her.


His apartment was small, but the walls were soundproofed.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 22, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.



Am I thinking? Yes, I am thinking. I am lost in a field of reminiscence. The smell of sunlight on the dry grass is overpowering. I know you are right behind me, although I can’t hear you. You’re so damn quiet. Makes some people nervous. Not me. I wonder about it, though. But I know you won’t appreciate the question, and I don’t know if I have the guts to ask, regardless.

You smell that?

Yeah, I smell it.

Nice, huh?

Yup.

And my mind is creating flowcharts, letting imaginary conversations blossom and grow firm and full on the stalks of social ambition. You are not interested in me. You look, but you do not see. I get that. I can hear it in the way you breathe. I can see it in the light, soft sneaker prints you leave. I don’t want anything more than you are willing to give. You are company on a day that is filled with silence. I’ll take what I can get.

We walk and walk. And, soon, we are at the creek. You call it a crick. I wish I did. But my accent is all fucked up from bouncing around the country. It doesn’t matter though. Not to either of us. You are content to enjoy the silence. I am content to let you be content.

I’m going to be moving in a few weeks.

I throw it out there, like a line with too much weight. I wonder if it will make a splash. But you don’t say anything. I am prepared to accept that, but then I look over and see you shaking with anger.

You’re leaving?!?!

Yeah, I don’t want to.

When did you find out? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

I found out a few months ago. I didn’t tell you because … I don’t know. I was hoping it would go away.

We stare at each other and suddenly the trickle of water is overpowering. So loud. I want to cover my ears. 

(She is crying softly.)

I won’t forget you.

I smile.

I won’t forget you either.

But that is a lie. A flat out lie. She doesn’t know it, but I do. My brain has gotten good at this. Sever and cauterize. Don’t look back. Don’t open your eyes. Stumble blindly forward. Are you there? Can you hear me? Who am I even talking to?

But for that day, for a moment, I pretend it’s true. Sure, we’ll write. Sure, we’ll stay friends. Sure, the summer will never have to end ...

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, September 15, 2017

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.


We were mighty then. Thumbs looped through ragged belt-loops, lips supporting dangling fags. We were fearless. But we were so afraid. Oh, how the mighty fall. Oh, the mountainous bullshit of it all. Here’s my pager number. Give it a call. I’ll meet you at the corner. 

Trust me, we’ll have a ball.

Folly. Volley. Pass it to me, and I’ll pass it back to you. Too young to know the truth – never too young to scream. FUCK! YOU! I can drink a forty in less than forty seconds. As long as it’s warm. 

Can you? 

Who the fuck cares? 

We care. 

Why? 

Bored. 

Why? 

Defenseless. 

Hear that distorted minor chord?

I’m gonna use it to beat you senseless.

And fuck you and your jock-ass friends. We came here to make amends. To sway and lean against each other, friends. We came for support. This ain’t a contact sport. This is important – why don’t you understand how important this is? I’m staring out over a hundred heads, sweating. But they’re not picking up what I’m laying down. They’re taking. 

What are they getting?

Are you aiding? Or abetting? Or will you strike a pose of supposed righteousness with me and my crew? We’re half chicks, and we’re not going to fuck with you. That’s not what we do.

Slugs off the whiskey tit? Sure, I’ve had a few.

How can there be such beauty in self-destruction? I’ll tell you, but you won’t listen. But I’ll tell you anyway.

Look. There’s only so much anger one boy can absorb. There’s only so much pain you can pretend to ignore. It’s got to go somewhere. And I didn’t want it hurting anyone else. So, I took one for the team, blood running down my arm in one long, thin scream.

I’m not saying it’s noble. It’s fucking retarded. You think I don’t know that? You think I didn’t know that then?

I didn’t know any other way to get them to listen.

And it didn’t even work.

I’m not Christ. It was selfish. But at least we weren’t busting heads in the pit. At least I wasn’t calling some kid a faggot because that’s what my Dad called me. Naw, I blew those brain cells away with stagnant, pulsing apathy.

You’re welcome.

It didn’t do anybody any good, but it didn’t do much harm. Put that on my tombstone. Carve THAT onto my fucking arm.

“He didn’t do much good, but it could have been a whole lot worse.”

Now, I gotta go. Show’s over. My ride’s here. And, yeah, I know it looks like a hearse.

One more chorus. Fuck the verse.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...