State of Things

Bags of garbage crowd my feet. Bottles of piss, sometimes fifteen or twenty of them will tumble out each time we stop. And the boxes, all the boxes full of shirts and posters and albums and all the other shit we’re out peddling—the boxes are constantly falling over and spilling. Then, despite the apparent abundance of clothing, I haven’t a single clean anything to wear. I’ve been cycling a few pairs of underwear, two shirts and three socks for the past month. Flex can’t even keep his bedroom clean at home. How are the two of us to keep a small, overstocked van tidy? 

I’ve started cooking while we drive, too. I’ll cook up eggs, and steaks and chicken while Flex drives, and the mess this makes... Our upholstery is starting to smell like breakfast, and everything is stained with hot sauce. 

I need a day or two at home… Just a couple of days... Then I’ll leave again, and try to sell records to people who don’t buy records anymore… And I’ll sing to rooms full of talking nobodies… And I’ll love it. I swear I’ll love it.