February 4, 2009

I’m fucking tired, man. Like a junkie coming off of bad and potent fix. The last two weeks have been full tilt, what with all the details and conversations and decisions about my dad, plus this massive project at work. Reminded me some of the Youth Shelter, which reminded me that I got it in me to be a bit of a crisis hound. Instant meaning, ya know. Instant meaning and instant bonding. At least until today. Today I hit the home stretch on this big web project and I sat at my desk for a good 10 hours or so without making or taking one phone call about my dad. And frankly at the end of it all I felt all hollowed out. Weird, man. But something to remember, because this has probably just been round one. Gonna be a whole different ball game going home. Geez, what’s up with my sports metaphors? I mean, do I use these all the time or am I channeling some good-ole-boy speak in prepping myself for coming home? My dad had prefected his affectation of a certain kind of good-ole-boy. Was damn near authentic. If you hand’t known him for a long ass time.

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