I hadn't slept well. Not last night, the one before, or any in recent memory. In search of a solution, I'd been to the doctor's, a walk in clinic at the local Wal-Mart, a bastion of Hippocrates ingloriously shoehorned in besides the crooked arrays of shopping carts.
Do you ever wonder how many people are only one job away from perfect, self realization? I do.
It's official; I'm unemployed. As of yesterday, my gig at Bankrupt Thread Co. is over, as the entire company folds worldwide, country by country fading to black like lights going off in a vast corporate hotel, one-by-one.
There's something to be said for mystery-bands, groups so obscure that they share a profile on last.fm with three other ensembles with the same name, (I'm looking at you, Rogues) or others that release a bang-up EP or debut, then immediately announce a hiatus, and six years later they're all but vanished.
It's been more than two weeks since the US election by now, and I'm going to acknowledge this event best by not acknowledging it much at all. Apart from the occasional nightmarish dream like the one I had this morning, where my egomaniacal father had somehow merged with the meglomaniacal president elect and the two were one person, I'm doing just "fine."