Aint no grave, can hold my body down....

Except a really shallow one, I mean.

I'm tired. I feel dead. I am working too damn much. I miss my life.

I know this won't last. It will end. One way or another, I will live again.

I just found this on The Internets. The Johnny Cash Project.

This is one of the coolest things I have seen. They take thousands of illustrations from all over the world and put them all together to mark out to The Man In Black.

Such creativity inspires me.

Until I have to go back to work.

Again.

And again.

Every day, always again.

I walk the line.

http://www.thejohnnycashproject.com/

Blueberries are good for you, but they are killing me...

So, I think to myself today, hey self, you haven't been on the blog in a while... and then I thought how much of a miracle of life it was that after working 103 of the last 105 days, the last three weeks of them nights, I remembers I has a blog at all.

I am currently working late evenings becaue blueberries must crush me. I have worked, literally, almost 4 months straight. It's doing wonders for my social life. Most of my friends have disowned me.

I am reminded as to why I do this whenever bills come along. But I wonder what it does to my sanity. Then I laugh and wonder what kind of benchmark I could possibly have for my sanity.

I am very tired. I am wanting a dose of life again. I am tired of all-emcompassment. There must be Leebo Time.

Time. For Leebo.

One thing is for damn sure.

This just might be the season I kill a goddamn truck driver.

That's gonna be sweet.

Or... one might kill me.

That would suck.

Produce.

You are a fickle mistress.

And a goddamned whore.

The only bar I can walk to....

As Hitchcock would say, good evening. I haven't been on the blog…though it's not for lack of trying. I'm actually writing this on my Blackberry at the Winghouse. Currently, Britany Spears' homogenized, synthesized voice blares annoyingly over, around and through my head and I marvel at…but not by much.. at how much she sounds like Chris Brown. Across the bar from me is a man with blue-ish green tattoos from his sideburns down to his hands. He is completely covered in tats, except for his face, which could use some. There are huge, black, disc-like objects embedded in his ears, each about the size of a coaster. He looks happy. He looks content with life and existence. Fuck him. I am currently in the mix of blueberry season. I have worked 89 of the last 91 days and am currently in a situation where I am working a helluva a lot more than having any fun. This is a situation I find abhorrent, except twice a month when bills are due. When, with a complete babyface-turn…it comes surprisingly in handy. I'm burned out. I'm cranky. I can feel it. I drop a pen and feel nothing but rage. My printer runs out of paper and I want to slaughter thousands. My phone rings and I want to decimate entire solar systems. I showed remarkable restraint when they announced Snookie would be at Wrestlemania. Either that or I just don't care anymore. About life. Or the WWE. There's a gaping chasm in my life. I don't know what it is, except all that "all work and no love or fun" baggage. And also, maybe, all that cool shit I don't have. Like love and fun, for example. Those sound neat. I'm just kind of coasting through the days right now. I'm feeling nothing. Really. Got some hurt. Nothing new. I'm numb. I'm tired. I feel nuzzing. Nuzzing, Lebowski. Holy crap, I'm becoming a goddamn Nihlist. I vow not to let that happen. Those folk threaten castration. They'll cut yer fucking dick off. It won't come to that, Dude. I won't let it. If I can get through the next few months without disemboweling someone with a wooden cooking spoon, I'm going for some major R+R. Walking through pudding. Jeezus. That guy across the bar has giant coasters in his ears. Fuck me. Fuh-uh-uck. Me. I so want to shove a beer in that guy's ear.