(lone star grimace)

My brain is a beauty queen fading from her skin.

There are only so many vices a man can swallow before he comes to terms with the fact that his life just isn't right. i have my cigarettes. my smut and booze. cocaine on the rare occassion.

And the longer i imbibe. the further i grow into my patterns of indulgent repetition the more distant i become from who i really am or, at least, who i really want to be.

I know i tout the rock and roll killing machine as if it's something i can cast out for acclaim, but it isn't. not now. i am not the debauched vision of perfect excess. i am not the slut of the city, the madman burning up the streets.

I'm just a kid.

Which is pretty fucking sad for someone my age. not that there isn't room for young antics or even for naivete.

But i've crossed the age when i'm drifting towards thirty and where i am is nowhere near where i should be and i have no fucking plan. no fucking idea. a loose notion on the rare occassion that sobriety deems my head clear enough to think towards the future.

It's not enough.

I have to make a change. i have to be a man for fuck's sake.

If my dream is to write for a living i have to let it consume every fiber of my being. it has to torment my working days and ignite my lonely nights. it has to be the core of my person, the thing that fuels me. propels me into the place where i can be happy.

I owe myself that much.

A fucking chance.

Before it's too late.