Triks's Blog

Ive worked in restaurants for pretty much a long time. Ive been a Server/National Trainer for well over 3 years. It is so common that people want the product I sell for a discount, if not for free. I am constantly having friends, family, and mere acquaintances asking me to "hook them up." Most of the time if it’s somebody I know and/or like/love so I am willing to oblige. I have also encountered my fair amount of transients looking for "hand outs," to which I usually decline.

 Last year I was stuck all alone on "5 de Mayo," also known as Mexican Independence Day. My Chinese cuisine restaurant was dead pretty much all night. Frank came in for dinner, and David and Lauren had fun at the bar. At about 12:15 I was closing when the host came and told me someone was at the front asking for a manager. We couldnt find her for some strange reason, so I went to talk to him. The first thought that came to mind was please dont let this be a complaint. As I approached the guy, who seemed fairly well dressed, but somewhat thuggish I thought well maybe he wants to book a large party reservation or better yet, maybe he wants to rob and kill me. In my professional manner, I reached out my hand to shake his, introduced myself and he explained that he has had a really rough night and simply asked for some leftover rice or soup. I cant tell you how many times Ive gotten this request and told people no. Seriously its way too many times for me to count. But, for whatever reason I said sure and that I would be right back. So I got to the kitchen, and packed one rice box full of plain white steamed rice. Then I realized I had tons of the Asian staple, so I packed 4 more boxes. I threw some soy sauce, cutlery, and fortune cookies in the bag and walked back up front. I got about half way before I thought he probably would like some water too. So I got a cup and walked to the beverage station. I then stood there and thought he probably would prefer Coke. I walked right up to him with his "dinner" for the night and he reached into his huge stack of newspapers and such and pulled out a green sheet of paper of which it seemed that he had several others. He became very gracious and said that in return he would like me to read a few kind words of appreciation he wrote. I said sure and walked away. The guy walked out the door.

The green sheet of paper and its contents:

"Today & Tomorrow" (his title for it)

Victor Wooten (thats his name)

I will be positive in all of my thoughts.

I will be a blessing to all those I encounter.

I will be creative and dynamic in my work.

I will concentrate on solutions, not problems.

I will be energetic and enthusiastic in all I do.

I will act on all the decisions that I make.

I will walk with honor and integrity.

I will be thankful for all that I do have.

I will smile each day.

In Jesus Christ name, complete happiness.

Thank you.

I got to the end completely tearing up. The sous chef, Patricia, who Ive worked with for many years now came up to me and asked why I was crying. I told her the story and she read the note. As she looked up at me after reading her eyes were swelling too.

Earlier in the night one of the servers showed me a note that his table left him, to which he also showed Patricia. It said. "Tip of the Day: A stuck up FAGGOT server doesnt get any money from us." OK, so that was paraphrased, but the F word was used and you get the point. I asked Patricia why she was crying over the green note and she said it is because in the end the reason you (me) gave the guy some rice is because we are all people. Black, white, hispanic, straight, gay. It doesnt matter. We are all people and we should respect each other as such. The whole time I was reading this letter, I thought to myself this guy seemed completely normal. He was dressed no differently than you or I. Yet, he probably hit up some really hard times in life and was just looking for someone to care about him. I imagined as I was reading this that he wrote this letter (which had clearly been photocopied) one day while he was sitting on a bench thinking down on himself. I imagined he wrote this letter as an inspirational note. Something that he reads everyday he wakes up in order to make it through the day.

I probably wont read it everyday of my life. But, I will most definitely refer back to it from time to time and wonder Today and Tomorrow, what can I do to be a better person?

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Here we go again, I recieved a new tmail a few minutes ago from a certain user. I have never seen his/her stuff. Well the fact of the matter is that they got offended with some stuff I've written. Check this out, I write to escape from things, these are my own beliefs, and thoughts. I do not want to offend anyone with what I post, so please dont be offended. No one is forcing you to read my stuff, if you like what I write, thats awesome. If you dont, then dont read it but if you have something negative to say then keep it to yourself. Thanks to those who read and comment on my blogs. I really appriciate it.

-Cheers

Triks

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If the devil is in the details than god must be a simple thing. The brain is the most complex thing known to man. What is funny about this is that man uses the brain to think about the brain, making the brains complexity increase exponentially. I think about thinking a lot. I cannot dance, sing or play basketball. I can however think about these things until I understand why I am not very good at them with out every increasing my ability to do them. The more details and complexities that I understand about these topics only makes them seem more simple (god like), and more frustrating that I cannot make my self any better at them.

God, if one exists, must be something so plane that everything is absolutely benign to it. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I would like to believe that there are no bad acts only a series of good acts that went wrong somewhere. I actively refuse to believe in malice or altruism. This is not submission to naivety; this to me is a matter of mere logic. I do not believe that an act can be completely evil or selfless. I do however believe in mutation, a random error in gene replication that leads to a change. In short, the devil is in the details but god is the details. My neighborhood is not Rwanda. To my knowledge, no machete-toothed genocide has ever taken a bite out of Baldwin Hills, but there is some kind of "evil" here. I sleep 2 houses away from where my neighbors son was shot in face and walked away. He carries a gun and sells drugs. He was incarcerated before he was 16. The sickle shaped scar just to the right or his right eye pinches his face into a constant squint, putting him in a perpetual state of inquiry. He cannot dance or sing very well either; I have not yet asked him about basketball. We share 99.9 % of our genetic make up. For the first 18 months of both of our lives we didnt understand that our toys still existed even when we werent playing with them (object permanence). I would be willing to say that he and I both understand this concept pretty well now. I would also be willing to say that a lot of things we don't have in common are probably results of the fact that my parents understood this concept and his probably didnt. Out of sight out of mind. From there we go wildly different. He is, "Die or get rich trying." He likes flaming hot Cheeto's and M.G.D.. He likes girls a little chubby, but has a soft spot for the skinny strippers across the street. He has no high school diploma and would kill someone for parking in my spot with out his permission.

He is how this state can justify sentencing 277 minors to life without parole. Out of sight out of mind. The correctional system of California has failed o grasp object permanence. If the Devil is in the details than god must be something so simple that it can live in every element of everything it is not; The Devil. If the Devil is in the details the brain most certainly is an infinitely evil machine. But it is a machine that must be built with parts made of cast iron God.

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A Santa Paula public school just started to include skateboarding as part of their physical education program alongside basketball and rope climbing...Today I am proud to be a southern californian. That is all for now

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Religion is usually defined with in the context of human kind. The "belief in and warship of something superhuman" or "the service and warship of god or the supernatural". The basis of these definitions is something more than human, human plus, the anthropomorphic "New Coke". The first eight entries for human in a thesaurus are all different variants of imperfect. One can then draw a correlation that to believe in religion is to believe in human imperfection. Nietzsches Ubernmensch, the profit Mohamed, Superman, Joseph Smith and Jesus all have one thing in common; their incapacity for failure. This is the classic "can god make a rock so heavy he can’t lift it" or, in the logic of Homer Simpson "microwave a burrito so hot he himself cannot eat it." Dose it matter? God will always win, because that is all that god is. This should not mystify us for it is not amazing, it is consistent, the same way it should not amaze you that your car is the same color every day or that Tuesday fallows Monday and proceeds Wednesday. This is not suggesting that we should be impressed with failure. Failure with consistency is just as god-like as perfection with consistency; it is not the act (failure or achievement) but the regularity of the action that establishes its superhuman status. What is remarkable is our inconsistency. I'm o.k. at life. Not exceptional, not horrible. At times I have been both. There are a lot young women, collection agencies and teachers that will attest for my capacity to drop the ball at the most inopportune moment. I almost didnt graduate college because I wouldnt do my English homework. I had my car impounded (a few months ago) because of three "fix it" tickets that ended up costing me around $2000. I have ended many relationships by seeing to return phone calls because I had forgotten to show up for some important event. I am that guy. I have also done some good. If you know me, you know that I am not absolutely worthless. I vote and volunteer. Ill help you move and buy you dinner. If you think your heart is making funny sounds I will band aid my arms around your back and suction cup my ear to your chest until we get things working right. I am consistently inconsistent, we all are. This is what makes us a little cooler than god. We will be fired, feed homeless, fail tests and lose months of our lives to the mundane. We will remember the valleys and forget the peaks. For this we win no matter what the score because we were able to experience the fear of failure and the hope of victory. It's nothing brilliant, but that is what makes it brilliant.

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There is a threshold for human productivity, a maximum at which it is impossible to push beyond and remain a human. For some this point means total operational success, the greased barring, the ball and pinion or the Maytag refrigerator point. It is a point at which one moves with out thought, resistance or warmth. Think about your first boss, or your drill sergeant, think about the parallels between godliness and cleanliness; imagine the thickness of lady justice blindfold. We would like to invasion the mountain of perfection as a plateau, that if we work hard enough, we would never have to wash our hands or alphabetize paychecks again. But the mountain is more like Olympus; our humanity is made of wax and Cirrus feathers. Make people work as though they are not people and they will melt. There is a threshold for human productivity; it is the balance between how few bodies are needed to produce the most amounts of functioning, marketable products at the fastest rate. My functioning product is a dining experience; a meal, an impeccably pressed shirt, orange chicken that is at the same time soft, chewy, crunchy, and hot, a bottomless glass of fresh brewed mango iced tea, a non-judgmental but interested glaze as I recite a desert list. I must function at the threshold of friendliness, the maximum point of efficient hospitable warmth for the most amounts of people as quickly as I possibly can. I am a waiter. The main principle behind restaurant management is to keep your staff fully occupied at all times. I know that this sounds obvious but if you have ever gone to eat an empty diner between the hours of 2 and 5pm and received terrible service this is why. It is not because you have an incompetent server, rather, a competent manager. As lunch business descends so does the ability to keep the full staff at the push point. The manager then assesses the staff as though the restaurant were a sinking ship. The manager (the captain) must decide who is most vital for survival (the head server) throwing everything else (less competent staff) overboard. The industry term is "making cuts." It's like an old fashion bloodletting. The heart of the body (the head server) now is forced to maintain the "push point" pumping faster and faster while simultaneously leaking vital fluid until utter exhaustion. At 5pm the sutures (night staff) are applied. The industry term for the first night server is "the relief." If this process goes smoothly no one notices. The head server, excited by the challenge and his sympathetic nervous system, is flooded with adrenaline then takes on every table in the restaurant working closer and closer to the human/productivity threshold. The worst case scenario is of course that the server is pushed past the threshold and is less (or more) than human with a costumer. The manager then has to recoup the cost of that costumer's satisfaction and balance that monetary amount against the labor cost of having had one more server (making less "cuts") during this time. If the monetary value of the costumers satisfaction is a free scoop of mango sorbet and a white chocolate dipped fortune cookie (costing the manager less that a dollar) than making excessive cuts prematurely was a success and this behavior will be repeated. If the costumer wants more then this behavior will still be repeated, however next time the manager will assign a different head server. A heart with a higher threshold. I am a head server. The problem? I am human; every one of us has a push point at which our pride, our mothers and our muscles tell us we must stop. My arms are not sprockets, my teeth are not steel. Beneath it all there lies something soft and safe, something thats intrinsic worth is immeasurable. Behind muscle there is blood, behind bone there is marrow. There are memories of fathers warm reassurance that, "Yeah Im fucking worth it." Beautiful if for nothing else than when pushed past the threshold, we all fall down, drunk on humanity and anxiety thrown into the gutter with the weak and the lovers. People be compassionate and tip graciously, its only human.

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I was made with a paper towel heart.

This is why my chest gets heavy when you cry on it,

and then lights up again when you squeze me.

It makes me feel useful when you are dirty.

Emotional nose bleeds beg my insides to be a damn

soggy and maroon

keeping you from swallowing penny flavored buggery blood.

This is also I think, why I have a tendency to spill on myself,

my ribs begging to be seeped through

and why I am attracted to precious messes like you.

Your freshman year in college

weak kneed my way up to your dorm room

butterfly gutted out small talk until

my hands caterpillars there way across a dirty denim sofa

and we cocooned for hours after a rusty jaw hinge swore

"just friends"

I am not only programmed to be brave

but stupid too,

this means

we have had hot hair pulling

passionate clumsy sex in your parents closet.

This also means,

I am not affraid to climb the big tree in my neighbors yard to get my voice box back

after the sound of your breath

pumping through a phone line thousands of miles away

hits me like a moth winged hurrucane

given the time and distance

builds momentum that blows through big talk confidence

like windows boarded up with silly putty

Im hiding in the basement.

Please be gentle when your big kid strom hands

tear apart my brown paper bag guts

and scatter their contents down the street.

When you asked me if I ever wrote a poem about you,

I lied,

but then

I wrote this

And finally, last week

when life had us pulled apart like opposing ends of a slinky

begging to be recoiled

hoping the spring hadnt been stretched out of our childrens toy romance.

I let you get just about 7 steps mid street

before I realized what a shitty "good bye" we would have had

if you were,

in that moment,

hit by a car.

Run after you

feet meating between double yellow lines

I couldnt pass

computer chipped tooth kissed you

moments to fast for processing

I freeze up in nervous giggles and hick ups

this years model refusing to become obsolete.

The man in me makes omre sense than the machine

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The biggest horror in life is that there is nothing to be afraid of. The biggest horror is that we are responsible for the biggest horror. Imagine that there is absolutely nothing wrong, no reason for the worries, the weakness or the weight gain. Imagine that you are absolutely OK. The disease for your symptoms is simply existence, and everyone that you know is plagued with it. Take a deep breath. I know its a devastating diagnosis. Ive got it too. We go to great lengths to avoid the sickness. We adopt addictions and children, we devise compulsions and careers all in the attempt to self medicate. Life for the most part is an attempt to prolong the moments when we are not alone with our utter uselessness. I write, clean my house, and run. I work, get good grades and maintain fleeting friendships. The goal is not to be grate, the goal is just to choose a goal with a hum so loud it drowns out the terrible silence. But when we curl up into the cold sheets of our consciences, and the howling screaming world is gone there is nothing wrong or extraordinary about anything. There is just you, the darkness, and the games you create for you and the darkness to play. This is what I think Immanuel Kant meant when he said, "Only the decent into the hell of self-knowledge can pave the way to godliness." Of course he did say this when roads were much more difficult to pave, and so far fewer of them were. Imagine the road to self (to playing nice with the darkness) as a cobble stone collective. Each chunk of reason embedded by the hand of experience into the mortar of your life. It takes years to make a mile, a lot of work and heartbreaks, a lot of food and rent, a lot of sex and stone cutting. There is nothing wrong working hard but it doesnt mean anything in the end, or in the dark of the asphalt colored room that glairs its tarmac eyes into you at 2:30am. Now, you can make up some sickness to distract you from this hell, but I'm trying real hard scare the shit out of the dark.

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A life, through time, looks much like a dissected cadaver. Your childhood, like your right thigh, connects to the hamstring of your adolescents in thin tendons of angst and rebellion. Bones built of careers, degrees and summer loves. Each system equally responsible for survival but none of them can exist independently. The body itself is not a body at all but an amalgamation of nostalgia, a verity pack of experiences whose relevance is completely subjective to the other flavors of experiences incased in the pack. I only know that this moment is wild chary because the last was nacho cheese. When all of these tastes happen in succession the body of your life begins to take shape. Change is imperative, sometimes you have to eat shit to taste ambrosia. The only real continuity or perspective that can be derived from a life like a dissected cadaver is in its abnormalities. That period of my early teens devoted to self-destruction is only bad when splayed next to my healthy late teens. Depression looks like an inflamed liver. The time I spent in New Hampshire after my band broke up like a runners heart. Living for me is at best like a surrealist trying to paint a self-portrait. If Im lucky it looks like impressionism, and hopefully some kids giggling across the gallery can see the subtleties blending into a rose garden. Unfortunately it usually ends up looking like melting clocks and floating pipes, something so bizarre that collage kids want to put it up on their wall to look at when they get high. I try to jump back and forth. I try to become a pinky toe when I have been teeth and bone for three years. I hop on a plane, see an old friend or start skating again. I tell my self that I am the unchanged and significant rock that the river of life thrusts itself against. Its not like that, it can be for a week, a year or a decade, but eventually you will become the river. Thats what Im hoping for at least. That my stories slowly erode to the ocean where there is a little kid building sand castles with the broken down granules of my breakdowns and breakups; I hope that this will be the body of my life. A variety pack of friendship bone gristle and long distance tendons that make up some kids day on the shore.

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For the past 5 nights I have packed a bag to go out after work and for the past 5 nights I end up at home. Too tired. Today these 2 girls walked in into the building I work at and made a big scene with me, I got written up for it. Makes sense, I just expected more from people, ya know. My entire weird alienation aside L.A. is beautiful and I walk out to the beach almost everyday, by myself. Not to read or write or anything other than rest, soak up what little sand and ocean I can before I move. Dont get me wrong I am having a wonderful time here but its just been my time. I haven't been social at all; there are days where I dont talk to anyone but my clients, or my mum. I am a hermit, and I am a little somber sometimes but life is good, I promise.

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So Im sitting in a Starbucks drinking my chai and shit starts to unfold in front of my eyes. I cant control what happens in my life all I can control is me. What that means is that I have to be truly happy with me otherwise whats the point. Those of you, who know me well, can attest to my passiveness but this has made me realize that must change. Nothing gets accomplished through laziness. There were a few catalysts for this situation and I truly thank the main one. Opened my eyes, so that I can see me. I have joined a writing club, I am going to quit one of my jobs and I have a new outlook towards everything. Im so excited and scared at the same time that its hard for me to sleep anymore. For the past 2 nights Ive gone to bed at midnight and couldnt sleep past 7. No more 11 am mornings for me. I have been amazed by what you miss in the early hours. I apologize to those of you to which I havent spoken to in quite some time. I promise that if you can read this you mean a lot to me. I dont know what is to come for me, but I think I like that. Thank you to those of you who have been by me through the past while I am so very lucky to have such amazing close friends, sometimes I forget to say it though. Hopefully Ill be getting my shit together, Hell, Ill be 23 in 2 months and its about time right?

Roses smell good through the good times and the bad....so make sure your stopping all the time to smell them you dont want to miss the opportunity

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DISCLAMER: This makes little if no sense at all, but thank you for reading.

Lets try to be nice today. We are all quitting smoking, eating healthier, exercising more and being better brothers. These things are not easy to do, so lets be nice. Today we start over, And right now the Canton region of China rookie cooks are being trained to control there technique with one hand by spinning sand and pebbles in their woks. On a beach thinking only of shimmer of sound bouncing back out of their pan. This is how it has been done for generations. A style that manifest in our culture like baseball or alcohol beyond the calendar. No one here is particularly concerned with how it starts, it seems that with the things that matter, we never are. Certainly not the 20 something bachelors botching some “stir-fry” for a girl he met through a friend on MySpace. Playing a little bit of pretend, convinced her to let him prepare her dinner. Provided that she provided an appetite and some conversation. They will talk about bad habits and past loves about sex and music, Never acknowledging the irony that this begging. This popgun start to a stutter step relationship started with a meal made in a style that had no official beginning.

Im on my couch thinking about how nothing changes, or at least how I dont….much. Im hiding inside listening to old music and thinking about school and the next year of my life, because that is what we are supposed to do today. Im wasting the sunshine and the afternoon because I am too afraid to let go of some of the habits and routines that I have found some kind of validation in. I want to, Really want to Stop thinking so much, or quit worrying about random shit. Put away some more money or spend less time doing absolutely nothing. But this year I have no resolutions, this all makes little sense, but what it comes down to is this, I start School this year again and I am nervous that I may fail because I dont care enough. I think that I do but I am afraid that I may have just settled back into this for no reason other than I had no other reason. So here I am, a pebble in a bunch of sand, spinning one more time in a Wok just trying to believe in a plan. Im just going to try and be nice as we bump into each other amidst the swirl.

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God and I.

Out for a drink the other night after work,

Hands so soaked in soy sauce that the pads between digits become old Mexican mens wrinkled faces.

Condensation sweats through my diet coke like a marathon runner.

Blood between my fingers stains my bev-nap like a bad spray on tan.

Gods tired.

Eyes berried behind 2 glasses of cheap merlot and a little of that late night sentimental moisture,

it builds like water behind a damn waiting for one more glass to justify spilling over.

In erratic hiccups that earthworm there way down bad complexion.

Deep wrinkles like Grand Canyon splatter paints pin-wheeled deeper than bad coffee shop poetry.

The kinds of emotion that comes up to fast to hide and makes everyone laugh nervously.

A loud red mustang in a bumper car rink.

I try to make light conversation,

You know,

Girls,

Bosses,

Shitty tips.

Seem to worsen things.

Sometimes I run my mouth,

Sometimes its the other way around.

If conversation were a war, this would be the slaughter of a pacifist.

"Hows the wine you fucking cannibal?"

I though it was funny.

Maybe in poor taste, maybe I just didnt get herd.

Happens a lot,

I work in a loud place.

Name screaming customers a constant stream of needs impossible to meet.

Talking orders.

Always balancing priorities for a little gratuity.

"...I honestly think that Im worth 20% I mean come on"

I now realize what an asshole I must have come a cross as.

This is god

I mean really

Most people give 1 hour

Of one day

Every week

Roughly 52 hours a year

Out of a potential 8,736

Thats then less than 5 one hundredths of a percent

Now who do you think is having a harder time paying the utilities?

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I have learned a few things from sitting in my room alone, sometimes trees grow up crooked because something is always pushing them, and the same is true about people. a lot of people honestly think that the world was made for us by god and every living thing in it that is not a person (i.e. jellyfish) was made by god for us to enjoy but there(the jellyfishs) purpose ends there. A lot of people think that the world was made for every living thing equally and jelly fish have just as mush purpose as we do. I think that the world was made for the jelly fish and my purpose is to be enjoyed by them. I can sit alone in a car for 14 hours and 35 min a day not a ...minute more. There are parts of Texas where a fly can live 1,000 years and a man cant die fast enough.

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My fingers locked arsenal tight around my steering wheel

somewhere between North Dakota and daylight.

The hum of 2 sleeping band-mates

snoring keeps me awake.

Breathing slinked up like an automatic machine gun of nasal congestion

jabbed into sleeping bags like oily rags into Molotov cocktails.

We earn it

the bags under our eyes are like that awkward fleshy

stump your grandfather hung his innocence on after the war.

This summer

our goal every night was to draw more kids than the...of hours it took us to get to the shows

and here at 15 and counting I know this is a little more than ambitious

the horizon bends like an over loaded barbell.

You hear statistics

clock miles and count shells

recount merchandise money and try to balance it with gas mileage

but out here at never ever o clock

and less than 3 c.d.s worth of gas left in the tank

you begin to understand

where this country can hide 75000 tons of bombs

or how the Donor party diner party could have stomached there menu

so....

When your sweating led from the tip of a pen

dryer than a 50 year old cabernet

onto a job application that will

be shuffled like an ace into a Vegas black jack deck,

you cant help but wonder.

Where can I put the name of the kid in Utah who has my lyrics tattooed across his stomach?

Should I list "dreamer" as a former occupation or a current qualification?

There isnt a scale for the big ones.

No one knows how deep the ocean is,

or anything worth being measured, cant be.

I could have a doctorate in loading guitar amps up stairs

or locating a fan by the color and shape of there hair.

If there were a temperature for my lifes experience in the past few years

the mercury would Pompeii itself through the end of the thermometer.

Every damn interview stained red with disappointment

splattering mouthfuls of mileage

like a Tommy gun shower of "well keep your resume on file"

Relearning the talk of a people who speak in blanks

after years of whispers that could rip your fucking chest apart.

I figured out where they put there weapons

but have no idea where they hide there passion.

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I have always tried to be a good man, I feel like thats important. In these past months I have been put to the test, sometimes I feel like a pinball sometimes I feel like the machine. My sole lights up bright with a neon sign "tilt". Sometimes I think I want a woman who understands me...something I want a woman who doesnt. I am terrified of old people, there incompetence reflects my mortality, I think about everyone I know....and loosing them all. Sometimes I am too attached....and melodramatic

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So tonight I washed every article of clothing I own, I bought a new pair of shoes, some cologne, a few 16 inch screws and a smerf blue weather proof trap. Watched beautiful Mexican girls with silver teeth make there fingers bleed scrubbing bleach into ugly white womens clothes. We smiled at each other with understanding and know that we will never meet again. I kicked a soccer ball the color of a 76 station sign on the beach and remembered what it was like to feel like there werent enough roads to drive on. The past few months I have learned a lot about myself, seen darkness I have only heard about in bad country songs. I have a strange mind.

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I was skating this afternoon, I was only boarding for two hours, for some strange reason I felt very tired and frustrated. I couldnt land anything or bust any rails. I got home that night and walked straight to my room and laid on my bed, after only minutes I drifted into a deep sleep. I woke up the next morning and I got mad at the sun for coming up again. I was weak and sick. My girlfriend said "you look like you are dying" I felt really soar and weak. The thing about being weak is that shit isn't any lighter,

Not the pain,

Your muscles,

Or what's left of them.

Stuck to the bone the way a cheap roast must look to an old homeless dog through the window of one of these gyro shops on every corner, yellow, dry and far far away. Shit still just as fucking heavy, you just dont get to pick any of it up, you cant.

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