Sound.

I am so glad that I no longer exist. I should throw my own funeral. That could be cute,cute,cute. My Slayer casket covered in Hello Kitty decals.

Peachy.

The fingertips on my left had are bullet proof.I lie in the dark and run them all over the fretboard of my guitar without strumming. Ghost songs in my head. I was playing the other day,sitting on my porch and when I was done I heard a smattering of applause from over the back fence.

Whatever.

( You used to want me near you all the time. You driving,I would kiss the side of your face,spy on us in the rear view mirror ,so perfect together. I never thought it would end…..)

It’s so hard not to smash my guitar. Not to give up. And I do ,100 times a day.

Have put myself up for a run of shows in the near future. Because I am a fucking idiot.

My voice makes me sad now. It’s so heavy with heartbreak. I was tracking some shit to do harmonies over and it almost broke me in two. I don’t know if it is wise to take this noise anywhere let alone in public. I don’t know what the fuck else to do with it.

Keep it all inside and all it is gonna do is give me cancer.

So I guess I should finish writing this stupid fucking album. Pointless really.I don’t know what I am trying to prove to myself.Big deal.Still alive.

The scant audience I had has drifted away. No one cares. Thank GOD I am just a figment of the imagination.

Its late as always. The crickets are doing their thing outside my window.I’m not eating again.I look like shit. There is no hunger. I cant be bothered. Notebooks all over my bed and The Blasters on low,whispering from my speakers. Too tired to sleep. Seems that I am on the door for The Melvin’s tomorrow night. I would really like to make it but ,but,but….

“Hi Michele! How have you been??” and so on and so forth and I know that people mean well but fuck man…

But being that I am a theory now I may be able to do it. And Buzz is so cool to put my name on the list.The Fish gave me a ear-full about not going to Soundwave today. I cant cope with the crowds. It makes me feel hunted and although most people who talk to me are really sweet,wanting to know what I am up to ( “Well! Fuck all really since I got my heart shattered and my ass handed to me and every dream I had cherished for say the last 8 years murdered in front of my face….how are you doin?”) 

I don’t like festival season much. It makes me lonesome for what I lost.

Like my well meaning Doctor tells me whenever I am teetering on the edge of sanity once again “You can always leave” I tell him that my idea is better,ie: not going anywhere in the 1st place but he starts telling me about new mood stabilizers. I hang up.

He calls me back.

“Michele” he sighs heavily ” You cannot stop your life like this”

“Why not?”

“Because you are still young and there is so much to..”

“Do you love your wife Doctor?”

“Well.yes of course!” he sounds flustered. Maybe he doesn’t,maybe he is boning his secretary,what do I care.

“And tell me, how would you feel if she died?”

“I would be shattered!” he exclaims.

“Exactly” I say softly and hang up again.

He does not call back.

Bound by sound. Bound to what I wonder? All those stages that framed the love that I thought was going to see me through till the end. I never want to return to any of the cities we played. I was nothing but another stop gap on his annihilation trail. I will die here.When I believed that I had found forever I glowed. I was on fire.

Now?

Nothing. What a fucking winner.

Maybe I need to go and bathe in sound tomorrow night. See that big fuzzy head back lit and let the feedback floor me. Or not.

I wonder why I write when I am like this.I know that there is no one out there. But all good theories need to flex one way or another.

I’m going to sleep.

I’m going to dream of doing an autopsy on myself,pulling the little yellow pearls of fat out of deep creamy incisions.

 Know the true depth of  damage.