Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Milwaukee, WI

When I woke up today I was feeling kinda low. No big deal. Just stressed wondering if this “walkabout” thing was the right thing for me to do at this time in my life. It started like so many other days. Eyes open to the darkness of yet another windowless closet that I’m living in. House is empty except for my thoughts. A whole laundry list of things I needed to do (including laundry). I had to get out of the house. The last few days I’ve just spent feeling sorry for myself. Worked a little bit, went to a bar ( which I hate fucking doing, also it was metal night and I hate fucking metal. The things a man will do trying to talk to a cute girl are endless.), had Herds practice , and finally came home to masturbate in my closet. That was yesterday. This is today and that means, I Logan Dean Worrell am gonna fuck this town in the ass.

This town makes no sense to me. I don’t know where anything is, and there’s white people everywhere. The bus system intimidates me and all the streets start a stop too much for my liking. I’m just doing your, run of the mill “fucking off” when I see it. Just another café, but no. It’s not just another café. I see ashtrays through the window. After further inspection, I see a Dr. Pepper sign and a whole deli tray full of rice crispy treats. Holy shit. I have finally found my people. You can tell me my dog just got hit by a car and as long as I can smoke and drink soda I doubt It’d even phase me. I love smoking. Not because it feels good (which it does) and not because it makes you look cool (which it also does), but because it symphonizes everything that I love about America. There’s something about the death wish that gets me off. It’s expensive, disgusting, and deadly. I think that’s why I like it. I’ve met many a solid dude while smoking cigarettes. Oh, how many conversations we struck up while freezing your ass off in the rain just to get a few puffs. Oh how every transparent conversation was started off with a cleaver little quim about the weather. “ fucking sucks outside huh?” “It’s the worst. What ever happened to smokers rights?” Yeah! What about smokers rights? I pay taxes. Well I have at least. I pay taxes on cigarettes. Doesn’t that count for something? I’m totally fine with smoking sections. What ever happened to those? For years our people were leaving in harmony with the “ radicals” and then one day POOF, no more smoking for anybody, ever. I don’t drink , I don’t do drugs, so please, just let me smoke. “ It smells bad. Well you know what, so do does a lotta shit. Shit for one , smells bad. Incense smells bad. Hobos smell bad. Why can’t I just have this one little thing,

Second hand smoke? I was raised with second hand smoke. My father smoked like a fucking fright train and I loved it. Made me the man I am today. OTSS, only the strong survive.When I got caught smoking when I was a little kid, Terry, like any good father would, sat me down and made a young Logan smoke an entire pack of cigarettes. We have never been closer. Cleary he had underestimated my desire to smoke and we just sat there and shot the shit for a couple hours. Then he went to the store to get more smokes. That’s how you raise kids ladies and gentleman. Treat em like adults. So what I can’t walk up a hill? Big deal, that even looking at a treadmill make my chest hurt? I can blow a smoke ring in the shape of a 1940’s era battleship. I don’t have to taste cauliflower. Who’s jealous now? All I’ve ever wanted to do is be able to smoke on an airplane. That’s all. I could die a happy man. I could fly to the fucking moon just so long as I could burn one down every five minutes.

Hopefully the constant tar I’ve shoved down my lungs will eliminate the possibility of ever bearing children. It's a pretty expensive form of birth control, but a delicious one none the less. Plus most cigarette taxes go towards schools, so I figure that all those snot nosed, ugly, stupid fucking kids out there should all thank me for the hard work that I do. Which I do for them might I add. I don’t think it would be out of the question to have a little play in my honor at the local elementary school as a cute little way of saying thanks. Maybe the “ 3 Piggy Opera “ or something along those lines. That’s a great play and it keeps you on the edge of you seat the whole time. SPOILER ALERT: the wolf blows all the houses down but one and that house my friend was made out of bricks. Bricks and tar. Tar from the lungs of a lowly hobo.