Shingle

This Texas things has me all fucked out. I can't summon the will to make a decision about anything else in my life until this is settled. Which, if it falls through, is going to leave me all the way up shitass creek, way up near the falls, with no paddle or boat. Just going over the edge in a burlap sack, sewn shut at the top. But since I want this job so badly, it feels like cheating to even look for other ones in the meantime.

I am excited, but in a calculatedly reserved way. I am excited on the inside, but I tell myself, and anyone who cares to ask that I am not; and that time will tell, right man for the job, good things in Peoria, 110 percent, do it for the gipper. These are lies. Filthy, shit-ridden lies.

My inner depressive is tossing his unwashed bangs to the side and letting me know that no matter how badly I want this it wont work out, specifically because I want it so badly and that is exactly what the pin puller has in store for me. But fuck him, and fuck his mullet. Positive things happen to positive people. Right? RIGHT!?