Angry. Angry at life, angry at circumstances, angry at myself.
I wanna dye my hair black and listen to Nine Inch Nails while power-nailing beer bottle caps to my front door kind of pissed.
There is an old tale about a man who walked into the desert one sunny afternoon. Nobody ever saw him again, but on cold nights they say you can still hear the echoes of the screams that he made as he died.
Funny as he ain't dead yet.
In the desert, the nights are fuckin' cold and lonely. In the desert, you can't remember your name 'cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain or some shit. Fucker who wrote that was high on peyote and lives in a fifty million dollar mansion up in Beverly Hills now. Got a cockleburr and a couple-a tiny mice all his own, too.
'Taint the kinda life for me, nossir. Been in the fryin' pan too long, you're liable to bust yer britches on a chance to get out the heat, and you know what momma said about busted britches. No good can come of 'em, nossir.
Of course, out here under the big ol' night sky, I ain't exactly runnin' into filly-fodder, if you catch my drift. Most nights it's just me and Ol' Jake-- Ol' Jake's my dog here-- and ain't been a night yet when I've been liquored up enough that Ol' Jake was lookin' comely enough for me to be a smoochin'.
Nossir, the nights here are dark and cold as death.
But man, can you see the stars.