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I dream of swatting the cat with a rolled up newspaper repeatedly. I awake to the sound of rain riveting the outside walls of the house. It's a sodden, slate-grey 34-fucking-degrees. Impotent, both CD ports and my Photosh0p program. In two hours, the Miata boot will be packed like a sardine can, and I'll be off for three days-36 hours of work. Idiocy. In short, business as usual. Impoverished, mentally... the only prescription I can think of is: Iggy's Raw Power at ear-splitting levels. It just might have to do. Impossibly, every sentence has started with "I." That's all I got. |
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