18 May, 2005
this is not a piece of art.

Monday was another twenty-hour day. fuck Mondays.
up at 8:30, into the car by noon, into the hot seat on the Mothership (digital pre-press-stylee) by two PM... and not back between the (foreign) sheets until 4AM.
the curse of the MigrantWorker, 3-12 hour days.
why i thought i would awake when the cellphone alarm began its incessant chirping at 9:30 was wishful thinking. plus, sleep was a bit more difficult, thanks to yeahimadork. she is NOT PG-13.

there's plenty of that, otherwise.

forty-five minutes later than planned, i struggled into consciousness... unwittingly to the soundtrack of some syrupy sixties song already in progress in my cranium. as usual, nothing i'd heard in decades. "She Cried". probably by Jay and the Americans or some other buttoned-down, cardigan-sweatered, ultra-caucasian Cali band. lotsa booming tympani... slippery strings... regret and reprisal... pure kitsch. a more whitebread version of Roy Orbison's "it's Over".

where in the fuck do these things come from? for what reason do they torment my memory? why do i remember them, to begin with? haven't i written this before? why do i keep asking so many questions?

i just wanted it to stop.

last week, i'd begun this paperback that, along with several others, had been abandoned next to the lunchroom microwave. a story of gritty backwoods intrigue, which included murder, incest, cheatin', and dollar stores. not the usual read, but i was only looking for a quick read, not expecting it to be so close to how things are back at TobaccoRoad ("i hate you 'cause you're filthy, i love you 'cause you're home").

no wonder crappy songs await me when i awake.

sublime. and ridiculous. illustrated:

sublime...

honey locust blossoms.

ridiculous:

spinner hubcaps on an 18-wheeler.

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