There was a point in my earlier years I wound up dirty and drunk.
Empty, full of bile, running for my life from my own industrious shadow.
I could possibly skip forward thirty years and not miss the good parts.
But I'd rather remind you that all of its exciting.
All of its exciting.
All of its exciting.
All of its exciting.
From minute one I was screaming.
I took my first step.
Laughed.
And at thirteen I think I learned love from a magazine.
Three years later I hit 64 miles per hour.
I've been an adult ever since.
I met a woman named Jesse.
Alex.
Kimberly.
Melissa.
Meredith.
Genn.
Taylor.
Jessica.
I remember quite a few more not worth mention.
I got a job, sales rep.
And then I began drinking.
I began sinking.
Stinking.
Rolling in dirt and thinking,
Jesus, I never loved you.
I figured out then that my old problems found me.
So I packed up my bags,
retreated,
like lightning.
I bought my own house on the side of a freeway,
now I watch people drive home from work as a quirk.
Apparently I have a kid back in Escondido,
but I don't recall ever visiting.
I went to the doctor, he told me I was fine,
except for the cancer.
I invested in the stock market,
lost eight hundred dollars.
Now I like spraying my neighbors dog with the hose.
I realize I'll be out soon, but I'm old enough,
I think.
If I have no other stories, well, who cares?
I can drink.
I'll sleep alone, unnoticed,
in a suit and tie I laid out days before.
And the mailman will find me, from the smell at the front door.

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