i am Patrick O'leary's cow

“what could be more brave than dancing on your own grave”
One could say that I am still sleepily in love with the punk I once was. The spare changing, couch surfing, billigerent, self-destructive ass that I was. Listening to hardcore & pissing on cardoor handles all week long until Sunday when I'd listen to first wave ska on Sandpoint's college radio station & babysit a four-year old. Come monday with the first 22 in my hand we'd start it all over again. Pariah is the word my brother would've used if he used words like that.
One could also say I regret never keeping up with the alcoholism. I had begun to take some seriuos steps in my early twenties to really fucking my life up with alcohol. I remember this one week when I drank two, two, bottles of Foxhorn's white zin a night. Well, ok I don't honestly remember that much about those nights; there is one thing, though: standing in a mighty rain storm without a coat, screaming obscenities at the Knight Library.

“& I can't say why each day doesn't fit the space we saved for it”
This is a running sentiment which I've been exploring for probably too long now. I know this. The aforementioned quote was once an old mantra of mine. That just above is the closest I come these days to one. I'm beginning to feel the weight of age. & with this comes the desire to realign my days, get them structured & focused on what I want because they aren't slowing down & no longer is there time to waste spare-changing & baby-sitting & in general giving fuck all.