I walked in the door and dropped my duffel.  Before kicking off my boots, before pissing, or taking off my jacket, I poured two fingers of whiskey and washed down a milligram of melatonin.

I showered and sorted through a pile of clean clothes.  Now I’m sitting on the couch, trying to keep my eyes open . . .

I’m shopping for a dresser on Craigslist.  The throw-together cam-lock piece of fiberboard trash sitting in my bedroom lacks the strength to hold anything more than a few pairs of socks.  My t-shirts collapse the bottom.

Forget about throwing a loaded .45 in with the underwear.

I cannot believe the premium people are asking for their rat-fucked trash.  Hundreds here, hundreds there, for things I wouldn’t pay 50 dollars for.

I’ve noticed a trend since the economy took a dump.  Inflation has the cost of used goods wandering all over the place.  Once upon a time, if you gave the the year/make/model of an vehicle (especially GM) I could guess the price within $300.  Now guys are asking twice book value because one time they ran synthetic, and maybe they threw on a cat-back and an intake.

As the world gets desperate, people with no skill-sets are struggling to keep up.  They are fools to think that other people who are struggling for money are going to pay $200 for a particle board night stand, or $16.9k for a ‘01 SS Camaro.

Or $40k a year for you to sit and check your fucking e-mail all day.

We aren’t suffering from inflation . . . we are infected by it.  Like viral encephalitis.  The relative worthlessness of our currency is being compounded by the ignorance of the office worker crowd to the value of a dollar.

I am going to hang it up before my chin bounces off my chest one more time.  I can’t worry about “long term” right now.

All I care about are the six inches in front of my face.  If I can’t touch it, can’t do anything about it . . .

I don’t care.