6 pounds and 7 ounces

Sangria, sangria, red bull and banana. On the stereo, Ingrid sings of hope. She sings of butter, and of wine. She sings for men lost, and sings for love divine. She sings in vain to be noticed, she sings wistfully for solace. She seeks an escape, a place to call her home. I keep her words in my mind, so maybe I won't have to die alone.

Starting now, am I supposed to be fearless?
That all of sudden, I no longer dream of monsters or fight wolves in my silver lined clothes? Why, in all my fantasies of grandeur and greatness, I might even be the knight one cries out for. Instead, as warped as my mind can get, I might just turn out to be terribly wrong about myself. Blood-drenched swords instead of victory poses. Death instead of victory. Tears instead of joy. Say, I might even join forces with the evil witch to poison snow white just to destroy something beautiful.

In the distance the ideal couple sit upon the rocks. A mismatch. Beautiful nonetheless. He was wild, she was calm. He was the eccentric one, she exuberated typicality with such ease. He held her hand when she cried. She held his heart. Yet they part with such informality. No one's trying. He's an asshole, she's a wreck. No one wins. No, not really.

On the highway I hear of car wrecks and hundred mile pack ups. Lives squandered and destroyed in a flurry of ill precipitated action and rash impulse.

Thousand of miles from where I sit, early this morning with fingers cold between my sheets, the land of the free and home of the brave is finding out that it has to be the bravest it has ever been to brace itself for an enormous storm. A declining economy, dead young sons in a foreign land and carnal wreckage, perhaps. Forgone conclusions for destroyed hope.

Tic-for-tac. Pawn for rook.
In this endless war of tribulation and ever-impressing mortality, I've never felt so alone.
And I laugh.
I laugh because you said everything was going to be okay.

No, not really.