(notes from another time)

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

As they say in the retail world (where, all things being equal, I will soon be found), let us take stock of the situation. I’ll make it interesting, dear readers. These are a) my life and/or b) lyrics from great songs.

Another day older and deeper in debt? Check.

That he was all but lost so deep was his coma? Check.

Working for the church while your life falls apart? Check

It’s usually threes, I know, but rules?

My heavy head is full of debris. Yes, it is.

This one, this last Check, this one I’ll source – As Tall As Lions, “Stab City.”

Not that it’s profound – I’ve outgrown early-twenties existentialist self-pity. No, it is, what’s the term? Apropos (French: à propos lit., to purpose; Latin ad prōpositum lit., to intention).

It is apropos, considering the debris, when every idio(t)matic phrase is a study in logical substitution. To wit – “B., you have to dig your(self)(pronoun/prepositional phrase) (a) hole.” An example – “B., you have to dig yourself out of a hole.”

So, you see. A hole.

I’ve been digging. And digging. And digging. Out and under and over and every other way/direction/destination. It is not working. Headlamp’s out. Last prison spoon broken. Boots in the muck a few miles back. I am left humming the lost canary’s song – a lilted twitter echoed from me, not her.

I lack the proper implements, you see.

And, now what? What the fuck am I supposed to do?