Someone must have stolen my Delorean because it appears I've gone back in time two years to end up exactly where I was back then, only with a larger music collection and intimate knowledge of a couple bodies that aren't my own buried in a filing cabinet slated to be dumped into the ocean for lack of usage and future need. It seems that reading over old journal entries has been the "cool" thing to do lately. I must confess that I've been skimming through my past with a strainer, looking for any chunks of meaty goodiness that I can find. No one ever told me that I used to be a halfway decent writer. Maybe I can find that boy again and put him to work writing up the dozen or so things that are constantly floating about in the ether between my ears.
I'm homesick for a home that never existed outside of my own mind. Can you define home as the feeling of comfort brought about by the support structure you've built for yourself? I know that the empty husk that I go home to each night for rest doesn't qualify as anything more than a place to lay my head. Any fond memories that might come to mind come with barbs attached, like designer anthrax-laced love letters, creating a brief moment of euphoria followed by a stabbing pain in your throat and an acrid sting around the tear ducts. Combustion and destruction work well for disposing of the physical evidence, but I've got a luggage rack full of baggage that can't be so easily torn asunder. Luckily I suffer from a rare skin disorder that causes my skin to grow thicker and thicker as time goes on. One day I will be a walking callus, immune to the pin pricks, the bar pricks, the dumb pricks.
