Last week I woke-up with a shaggy haircut and unsightly, dirty fingernails from digging myself from under six-feet of dirt. I’m glad to be awake. I’ve maneuvered myself into the position where my direction is straight ahead. At work, I was gently nudged on the shoulder and told to go home. Not home meaning my apartment, which confines my portable air mattress, but Dallas. There’s a clone position awaiting me in Texas. Many have already asked about my feelings on this matter.
Texas is a wicked, bitch mistress who claws at my back, and screams she needs me when I walk out the door. But when I tell her I love her she tells me to fuck off and find someone else. She said I haven’t treated her as well as I have in the past and that perhaps I’m suited for another. Texas has a golden tongue but has a nasty habit of preaching Santorian from the mount. For vanity related reasons, I say I don’t believe in destiny until it slaps me in the face when I’m sleeping. Sometimes cold showers and shrieking alarm clocks just don’t do the trick. New places give me an edge in which I can use to carve out a new niche. In Texas, I’m flat-footed from the exhaustion of constantly being on my toes and I’m comfortable like an old, holey yet fitted pair of blue jeans in which everyone tells me to throw away for the sake of appearances.
I miss my friends and the hell-spawn beast we so affectionately refer to as Koko (aka, Meatball). It’ll be nice to see my faithful labrodar-esque friends in Texas. It’ll be nice to be home.
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