Hank Fucking Williams

Did you win again?

Will I fix us up two bowls of chili?

How about fuck you?

I ain’t got the hotrod Ford anymore (ditched for a bitch, sorry sweetie), but I got the two dollar bill. And you know this guy knows all kinds of places over the hill. Shit, I know places over hills you never seen. I know places you never thought to dream of seeing. They weigh on me some days like one giant argentine blast of all that I have and all that I am. Because guys like me are nothing but memories. That’s why I’m on this lost highway. You wouldn’t understand.

It’s too bad that mystery is my main capital. I got no drama. I got no dark secrets. I lay it out there. My fucked up history is not nearly as entertaining as it should be. What can I do to change that?

Unfortunately, my way of dealing with confusing malfeasance is not to pick up an acoustic guitar and grow effeminate hair styles, but to break bones and destroy facial features. I am not going to jail over you.

So I just go home. Calculus, etc.

You know the drill.

Note: Before I get concerned emails, I wrote this drunk last week thinking about my blown radiator.  Thus the ditching of the Ford comment.  Cars really make me punchy sometimes.