I was having such a good day yesterday. I am sick of pretending I’m a grown up, I am sick of being reserved and quite. I’m so afraid of falling back into my old routine of being depressed, I fight it all day long. I smile so much it for the most part really sticks. God, I act like such a child. Lapse, that’s all, at least that’s what I tell myself.

I’m so dumb, I go out and see my friends sitting at the bar and something inside of my goes wrong. What the fuck? I’m so over being like that I tell myself. I really need to pull emotions together, smooth things out, and yeah, maybe I should give into more of my emotionally distraught side so I can callous back over and fall back into a positive life smiles of jokes and smiles.

Fuck this, I need to go on a vacation.

my eyesight still blotchy from staring at the unsheathed 120 watt bulb that resides above my bed, in my small room littered with LPs in stolen milk crates and discarded dirty laundry. cellos and violins play out of my laptop’s speakers as a car horn yells outside my window for a second time. I hear a woman’s voice, a neighbor? i’ve got no clue.

i live about five minutes outside of Ybor city, near the heart of downtown tampa, florida. almost everyday, while i drive to work, if i’m conscious enough, i find myself imaging my city burning. the haitian ghetto i live in first, sparking up cheaply constructed homes of the poor like books of lit matches, then it spreads with the turn of my car’s wheels like wild fire. the highway i’ve spent far to much of my life on, stuck in gridlock embarked on pointless journeys to no where hardly resembles the high speed roadways of its better years. now, after all my distraction its a charred out black mess. the tar beneath the asphalt has warmed and is bubbling, the concert sections slowly slips like melting ice cubes on a kitchen counter. i pull the wheel of my car hard to the right and find my exit. the flames than engulf busch boulevard, turning gas stations, chain restaurants, drive bars, and those big stupid theme parks i pass everyday into ashes. my ride to work becomes the valley of death and i invasion myself as the soul survivor of this nightmare, doomed or privileged to be the last body to tread this patch of earth. my out look on this trail of tears is generally based on how much i drank the night before and the brand of hangover said actives have given birth to.

i’d drive to my job just to see it in ruins, along with everything else i hate in this world.

one day we’ll all be dancing on each-other's graves and giving thanks to all races well run, because in the end, just passing the finish line is reward enough no matter how well you faired.