Jimminy

Each rivet banged out sounds to me like the bell in between rounds of boxing. It's the entry of the rhythm fantastic. There's no time for chit-chat, hit that! Why is my hand shaking? Exhale. Hurts. Fuck.

Quick!

Sidebar.

What to do when anxiety regarding your personal life strikes at 4 AM while at work.

1) Vomit in the lot. Sorry handicap logo.

2) Have a bizarre flashback sequence while doing so involving

A) The JFK headshot (w/a smooth transition into)

B) a duck diving head first under water at dawn (followed harshly by)

C) that time you broke your thumb in Disneyworld in 1988 (may not apply to all)

D) a cross-dressing dermatologist (applies to all)

E) if uncomfortable with D, replace with the Prince Charles/Di wedding.

3) Back to reality. Grab a hammer.

4) For good measure, have one more quick flashback to Captain Bob, that nautically themed artist you used to watch at 5 am when you were a kid.

5) Question how you got inside the building when the last thing you remember is being 40 feet away from the door. Blame flashbacks. Get a grip.

Jiminy Cricket, it's dawn. The screws get warm when the drill has it's way, and Siamese Dream is lifting my mood. Bad habits, dagnabbit. Christian, I'm sorry. So selfish. So selfish. Break Time.

1) Hand. Front right pocket-pull-open-lighter. Mouth. Cig/burn/burn/exhale/stomach acid/burn/burn/flick. Coffee/sip/sip/erase acid/puke/sip/cig/drag/etc.

2) See 1.

3) Approach door. Stop. Walk away. Notice the echo of the sound of a car not starting and pay close attention to how your shadow wraps itself around poles like it's your lover at dawn. Disregard. Another cigarette? Yes please.

This has become a veritable cornucopia of fuck. It's all become cinematography in my head. When I'm quiet, I'm filming, shooting. You're all extras. Some of you are much, much more. Jesus, are you. So while I'm exchanging war stories and showing off scars I'm realizing that I certainly don't want to come to grips with a dead giveaway. But all this hootin an' hollerin is giving me a headache. Square zero.

These so called real men put their organic gallons in plastic bags. They can't even handle it.