Got dirt, got air, got water and I know you can carry on.

The good times are killing me.
Enough hair of the dog to make myself an entire rug.
The good times are killing me.
Have one, have twenty more "one mores" and oh it does not relent.
The good times are killing me.
Shit-kicker city slickers who all wanted me dead.
The good times are killing me.

Get sucked in and stuck in late nights
with more folks that I don't know.
The good times are killing me.

The good times are killing me.


Going on 24 years in this body, you would think I would have learned how to work it by now. I am convinced that I would not even have knee problems if I could simply figure out how to avoid the table legs, or the desk supports, or the frame to the car door, or the chair next to me. But no. Even when I know they are there, something in my brain is incapable of steering around them. And then I limp back to my cube in a suddenly bad mood.


Currently Listening to
Good News For People Who Love Bad News
by Modest Mouse