After learning about The Mars Volta’s demise last week, I’ve been using the first two tracks from De-Loused in the Comatorium as my alarm clock.
But let’s be real, who doesn’t hit snooze? I did that for a while and, jeez, all of a sudden I was late. I accepted it–waking up–was really happening, though I made some ugly faces first.
I needed to be presentable–a new coat of paint–but everything hanging up, it was all black. The same as always. No excuses though, so I fixed myself up and stepped into my living room.
Ugh. When I don’t clean up before bed, when I leave all the flotsam and jetsam of the previous day sit out, it looks like some hooligans snuck in and had a party while I slept. Mail and papers on the table, cords unwound on the ground, dirty water in the sink. I’d already lost my momentum, but no excuses, so I turned the key again to restart myself.
I clicked some doo wop through the stereo and ate leftovers surrounded by the detritus of my life. It would be okay though.
Snow outside. I pulled on my trusty winter hat and charged out the door.
Look out world, here comes trouble.