Oh hey, New Olé! N-O-L-A! My, my, how this city eats me alive, alcoholic iced caffeine sinks my days into night. The city is a lady waiting for me to come home from work- she knows what I like to drink. Fickle, fickle feeling, bipolar sways of N-O-L-A suit my mood like a pair of custom-made alligator skin shoes. I am a werewolf and this haunt is a silver bullet with my name on it. This shit is a cocaine-laced cigarette.

I am a fucking addict.

Shiiiit.

I can’t sleep, I’m in New Orleans, even though I can feel my synapses stop snapping, more a low hum then the cracking whip that usually snaps my mind into place. The soft percussive stroke that marks each loop of a completed record not removed from the turntable. Shit gets really real down here; I could use my rest. But my rest is sick of being used, abused and sought after only when she is needed. She’s being honest with me… I dance to dodge the beer bottles she throws at my head in angry desperation, each bursting into a million stars of glass I have to tap between ever so lightly as the next vicious wave of frenetic beer-laden nebulae fly through the air and hopefully past the gravitational circumference of my skull. SMASH! dodge. SMASH! dodge. SMASHED! again, I’m smashed again because rest has no more patience for me, I am nose against the floor hoping that rest will take my state of repose as a final sign of acquiescence, a final sense of oh god yes, I repent, or at least I relent, or more truly, I resign.