Arms Against Atrophy

A band trip dance - what could be the harm, but a six week vacation from the use of my right arm? Just the two hits, I remember nothing more: Alex hitting the switch and me hitting the floor. We're taking this lying down. The one thing I can stand up for is resting supine on the ground. Mr. McDermott, won't you help me to my feet? Because the drumline's going wild in the San Francisco streets.

The long walk home, an hour and a half, quickly turns to three or four with stops at every underpass, but by June 22nd, I have done the math. That's a hundred and five liters I'll consume of Dr. Path. Some girls will tell their secrets to anyone. The word "love" gets thrown around a lot near graduation, so please don't whisper sweet nothings in my ear when the sound of shredding vocal chords is what I want to hear, because we're going to San Francisco and I forget to wear some flowers in my hair.

She's got a secret surname that nobody knows with the most gorgeous hyphen (you wouldn't believe the way it glows) and I'm the only one who gets to see it way up close, so the rest of you can stick it up your nose. Last night, I had the strangest dream that I have ever known - my mother, in a fit of rage, chases me from our home. My mother, the murderer holds me down in the road. She's got the nail clippers at my throat.
Even though things lately may have been real horrorshow, I'm wishing I was back in utero. I'd like to go back to the way that things were before, but apparently, I'm looking at physical therapy. It won't be exactly how it used to be. It ain't hard to see that it's not that way, not that way anymore. Jesus Christ is suffering upon his cross tonight. I just sit outside waiting for frost to bite. "It's always this way," she says on her way out the door. Wait and see. The rest is yet to reveal itself to me.