There’s not much better than nostalgia. I live in the past, sometimes. Not in the “Glory Days” high-school movie past, like some people. I live more in the recent past. (Side note: High School just isn’t recent enough for me, owing to my advanced years).

I just heard a song on Internet Radio. I’m listening to a SomaFM country station. It’s a bit different from your normal country, I tell ya. In fact, I just distinctly heard the guitar lick from “Feel a Whole Lot Better” (Byrds) ruthlessly embedded in a Psychobilly song.

Back to nostalgia. People in my past are almost uniformly psychos. I’m perfectly normal, of course. The last crazy thing I did, which was driving my Golf into a fountain while blitz-drunk on Costa Rican rum, pretty much cured me of the whole “Gotta be crazy to enjoy life” frame of thinking. Since then, I’ve pretty much just used my friends, all of whom are raving moonbats, to live my craziness out for me and, on a per-case basis, take the rap.

Honestly, I have absolutely no desire whatever to be crazy. I once wrote the following paragraph to a prospective girlfriend:

When I was younger, a girl left me who I really liked. It didn’t hurt at all. She was there one day, and then she was gone the next. That simple. She was beautiful, rich. She had long brown hair and light blue eyes. She was intelligent, too. I took a box-cutter and slashed my forearms to ribbons one day, blood everywhere. The old saying: If you can feel pain, you can still feel. I had to wear long sleeves for two months. Unfortunately, it was May, a hot month in atlanta to be moving around in long sleeves. Didn’t fool anybody though; they’d seen it. A friend of mine called it, 6 years later, my “ritual scarification period”. I still have a couple of pretty good scars from that.

The strange thing was, I was screaming-meemies drunk when I wrote that. I mean, it’s absolutely true, but I totally forgot that I’d written it. About a year later, the recipient mentioned off-hand that she’d noticed I had scars on my arm, and sorta played dumb about where they were from. Weird.

Anyways, if you go to this page, the particular babe who inspired this act of self-mutilation is the first picture. A doll, no?

This brings us to the present, I guess. And not in too particular straight of a line. I remember back in ‘99, when I was home for the first time after a 2-year stint on the road. I’d moved to Europe in 1997, and travelled through the south Pacific and southeast Asia, and finally come home. I was tired. Very tired. But there was one night, I was in bed, looking up at a map of the world. I was so happy just to be home. It was August, and hot hot hot. There were big spiders everywhere and mosquitoes outside. I was smoking a cigarette and staring at the map of Germany, of central Europe. I wanted to cry. What was it that had taken me there, and then to Asia, Australia, New Zealand, Indonesia of all places? And why had it brought me home, only to be unhappy? I wanted the old times back. Either the old times at home, or the old times in Europe, or Australia. Anytime but now.

Why? Because it’s not real. Real sucks. Real means work. But real is the gateway to the future. My future is bright, I figure. Ok, I don’t figure it is, but I have to use that as my starting point, or I might as well start drinking myself to death right now. Maybe I should stop listening to all this country music...

Women. I love women. I love the way they smell. I love the way they look. I love the way the feel when you curl up with one and go to sleep. I’m a leg-man, in case you’re interested. Actually, I’m a nape-man, but most women have good napes. At some point, you have to make a stand and cut down the selection.

Women are beautiful. I don’t mean the whole “life-bearing”, “nurturing” beautiful thing. I mean legs, asses, napes, and tits beautiful. There really is nothing like dancing with a girl who knows how to shake that thang. The problem is, if you let anyone get under your skin, especially a woman, you’re fucked. And not in a good way. They suck everything out of you. Your energy, your happiness, your independence, your freedom, your VERY SOUL. So, no matter how good it feels when they’re sucking that dick, or how cool it is when they grab your head and you’re eatin’ that pussy, screamin’ your name in some foreign language, you have to realize they’re saving it all up to stab you in the back with later. Every disgusting, depraved, kinky act that you commit upon that poor woman will eventually show up on an internet page. Much like the film you made of it with the “defunct” digital camera sitting on the dresser, heh.

People are evil, and women are no exception. In fact, if any of the world’s religions are to be believed, they’re actually the inspiration.