It’s another of those sick nights in Seattle. The kind where you wish the music of other places blaring through your headphones would grab you and pull you through the floor. And these thoughts were coming from a time in my life where I thought and felt I’d been dragged down as far as I could let myself go. People drive by my window, screaming, “I’m not dead yet-” from their slick black car, the driver flooring it before the speaker can finish her sentence. Why she needed to justify herself to me like this, I don’t know. Seeking pity? Trying to stir envy? I’m not sure. The only thing I am sure of is that words are still words, the City is a lying motherfucker, and that I need a cigarette.

My throat's starting to feel like Tom Wait's probably did when it shifted into that dry poetic rasp we all love him for. It's hot in here, with May almost over and a one week spring that's suddenly jolting all of us into summer. Writing hasn't done much for me lately, and as far as the quest for The Girl goes, I may as well give up all hope - doesn't look like she'll ever call back again. I've given up on the concept of The Girl, much less A girl for the time being. Too much has changed in my life lately, I've changed, and I'm only now starting to sit down and pull all the pieces back together in my head.

Almost a thousand cigarettes later, I come to the conclusion that I hate my environment. Not the City, lying bitch that it is; nor the work and the writing, just the people. The same people that constantly prove to me that humanity in droves are worse than flocks of sheep. The hordes of teenybopper students living near me, caring nothing for anything other than their good times, their revolution against society and their parents, and their so-called education. These kids wouldn't know a revolution if it stood them up in front of a firing squad- they've been led around the mall too many times by hack writers for Esquire and Cosmo.

Why this? Why rant on of revolution, stupid punks and my own shortcomings on a cold Sunday night in the City? Things come to a head sometimes, whether we want to realize it or not, whether we admit it to others or ourselves or not, and we must come to terms with those things before they blow up in our hands. Our shortcomings, whether they be physical, spiritual, social, or mental are the only things left binding us all together in the face of the coming storm. Our revolution? In these times, our revolution is one of simple survival; of refusing to admit ourselves into that padded cell we call normal reality. And as for those stupid punk kids driving past my window and screaming their existence at me, they are unfortunately our hopes and fears - what we hope will change the face of reality, and what we fear giving in to.

Originally published in Acrimony Magazine August 2003