January 18, 2010

Anyone walking down the street who happens to glance at the second story window of my house may see a bewildered face looking out at the sky, the trees, something. Hair unkempt, stubble, slept 11 hours last night, still in robe & t-shirt—that face, sipping coffee. Ah, worthlessness. It comes too easy.

Having exhausted the fantastic possibilities of playing music or writing books for a living, and the realistic one of forecasting the weather, I look for ways to end this sentence.

I’ve done nothing this weekend. Rode my bike Saturday, went to Garcia’s for a burrito and 40 ounces of Dos Equis Amber—because Kentucky only allows restaurants to serve alcohol on Sundays—the burrito was excellent—today I might buy a camera with the money I don’t have.

What is there to do? Why can’t I have a mission?

Four and a half months after my parents split and my mom and I moved to Tennessee, the April 16 Nashville tornado outbreak occurred.

The spring semester of my freshman year, a tornado hit Gallatin, but I was in Clarksville.

The spring semester of my junior year—the Super Tuesday outbreak.

Last spring a tornado hit Murfreesboro, but I was in Bowling Green.

Maybe this year I’ll finally see one.


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