Another birthday arrived on an ocean of junk mail and road away on the back of the hangover dragon. My birthday was on fathers day this year. My stepdad's a bastard and my father is a mystery, neither is getting a card or a shitty necktie from me.
E spent most of the day in bed, I got up early with Julian, watched him all day, went to a cookout in the evening and drank and smoked that night. I don't seem to get a buzz from alcohol anymore. I sat under stars drinking vodka straight from the oversized glass bottle and feeling pimping but slightly morose. I started writing a birthday song on my ancient acoustic guitar and felt better. Sometimes music is a better friend than life.
Now I am 33. You are only as old as you feel in this world, and I still feel young. I am entering another creative cycle, trying some new media. I am carrying a voice recorder with me and taking in the sounds of the welfare city to use in an upcoming album. In the next few months I will get this mad place on tape. The whispers to live on the streets with the mad. The flatulence of the fast food economy. The mysterious sirens drifting across the chemical river. Ghost silence of the acid fog. Domestic violence. Muppet orgasms.
We are going to buy a house soon, but do not know if we are going to stay in the welfare city or go somewhere else. For right now I can keep my job wherever we go. I liked Raleigh, NC when we lived there, but it did not completely fit either. Does anyone ever feel like they are home?
For now there are better things to care about. Destinations are overrated. For now is the time to enjoy the gift that life is. For now the future is faintly fucking the unknown, and the wild offspring of that uncertainty is freedom. One more year. Peace and passion.
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