Real Trouble

I'm in trouble at the factory.  Funny thing--for something that I didn't rather than did do.  I mean, I do soooo many things.  This is ironic.  I'll inform you as things play out.  I could lose my job as foreman and a lot of money.  Still, I can't help but see it as another fiction.  It is a novel, a movie, a play.  It is an HBO series like "Luck," a story of misfits and emotional cripples slapping away every reaching hand for fear of rejection.  I watched episode five last night as I sipped what was left of the whisky and thought about what troubles I may face and how I may face them.  On my feet rather than my knees, I think.  We'll see.  But it is a dangerous thing to watch fiction and to drink whiskey and to think of what you might do.  I've made a life of it.

I can hear my friend C.C. asking, "How's that working out for you?"

He knows.

The horror of it is that it is at least more interesting than a lot of things.  Bad things can happen to me.  I feel alive.

Here is the song to the closing credits of the show.  Kind of haunting.  But what a fucking name.  Devandra.

I wrote that last night before bed.  This morning, I am tired from a sleepless night spent projecting myself into the future.  No matter what I try to tell myself. . . .