Except For The Smell

Right. There is a place inside me I do not want to show you. There is a place inside of me I found that I can go, when needed, or when I feel necessary. This place is not good. Good things do not occur when I go there. I like good things.
This place. This is a place, we all have. I am sure of it. It is simply a matter of needing to reach it. So one day, if ever, you need to, you will have it and you will be fine. I like good things.
I like good things I swear I do. You wouldn’t know it to look at me. You wouldn’t know it to read my mind. But I do. I like good things.
Barbecues. Little league. Dance recitals. Reunions. Parties. Parades. Dance halls. Holidays. Dinner. The circus. The spa. Bars. Brothels. Testing centers.
I like good things.
There in lies the rub. Because I like them, and there was a time I loved them. Now, because of the place inside, I am unsure if I love the place or the good things more. I want this place to go away. But I want to watch the good things die in a fire so hot and raging the demons can fuck with them. This place inside, it loves me.
It loves me more than the barbecues, little league games, dances, parties and all the good things combined. It protects me. It makes me like a man I admire. It is going to get me arrested.
I went to Dresden last weekend and I hated that I missed the bombing. I stayed in an above 5-star hotel. It was an, “Elite Hotel of the World.” Wow. I got so drunk I slept in a doorway in an alley. I woke up in the morning. I stumbled to the hotel and showered in a 24 karat shower. I am rock and roll.

Miene Deutch Ist Kaput

Right. I am way too into documentaries on old rock bands. I also think things are cool I once thought sucked. I am a Jack’s sense of selling out.
I was drunk today, like in the middle of the day, and I tried to trade this Turk my jacket and my Chapstick for his girlfriend. He said, “No.” The fucking Turkish have no business sense. With the way she was looking at me, that Chapstick will stick around longer than she will.
German girls say I look like, “Elvis died.” I assume they mean “A dead Elvis.” I am not dead. I am not Elvis. I am just one guy who likes to drink beer for breakfast and booze for lunch.
My friends say I look like a junkie. I protest that statement. I just think I look a bit maniacal and bloody.
I bought records today. Like LPs. Vinyl. I don’t have a record player, but if you do and you want to listen to Bob Marley live in 1975, then call me.
Here is where I am at in my life:
Obama is President. I find that groovy. I mean, I voted for him man. However, now that he is the President, it means he is the man. And I have sworn to fight the man for all eternity. See? This is a problem.
I am leaving the Army soon. I think that is dope. I mean, I hate the Army man. However, once I am gone, I start over again. And I think I am too old to start over. I also miss Iraq. See? This is an issue.
I am already restless. I think this is scary. I mean, I want a challenge and something to do that is fun and exciting. And I don’t know what my future holds and I am afraid I will do something rash like become a Merchant Marine or some shit. See? This is an obstacle.
I keep getting harassed by the Gestapo. I can’t walk five meters without some clown asking for my papers. I didn’t know it was a crime to be me. But alas, it is. So I just fuck with them. I got punched once. I love it. I am doing nothing wrong, so nothing is going to happen to me. See? This is awesome.