It's not cold enough in this room to warrant wearing this jacket but I do so because I love the feel of fur being wrapped around me. It helps me forget that I've become a bloated ex-junkie with a sordid past and nothing left to lose and THAT is a bad thing.
Several years ago I entered myself in the Nyquil 500 racing under the influence of several unidentified substances and a Gatorade bottle full of sedatives and trash booze. I was driving the Cutlass; in it's cd player was a disc with only one song on it. That song was "Devil Went Down To Georgia" by Charlie Daniels and his band. It played on a loop. My competition was a collection of failures more profoundly wretched than my own and they were just as twisted on bad voodoo as I was and half of them had loaded guns in their cars.
We all knew horrific things were possible under these circumstances, or rather, we knew until the candy made us dandy, then we were off to conquer our fears and seek the glorious title of Archbishop of the Slaughtered Elephant Cub Cult that could only be attained by winning the race. It came with a beautiful hat. I wanted that hat.
It's a bad thing because it has stalled my harsh self criticisms to the point that I have slowed down my attempts at renovation. I quit the pills, I quit the booze, I quit the downers and the static rain dancing, but I can't pull myself out of the contentedness. I will live longer than I thought, but I would give up time on the clock for fire in the heart and miles on the feet.
Today's unfinished story and whine-bagging was made visually appealing by Korrin Stoney's picture of stag rape.
