2 weeks cold turkey off the zoloft

'cause the bastards couldn't fit me in 'till August and oh baby

the wiring in my head is bitching at me like the check engine light 

in my car that I've been praying for the past 18 months doesn't catch up to me 

yessir, I live my life like a fugitive on the run from myself

and thank God I ain't been caught yet, 'cause I got a show tonight 

.

we are four gaping maws to dump weed, beer, and gas station hotdogs in

which I maintain is still a better band name than sideways joe, but it was 3 to 1

I fuck up 4 times in 3 songs and I feel like an asshole

but the audience is hammered 

and the show plugs on

.

Dill says it's a waste of energy to care more about the show than the audience does

and I think that's fuckin' dumb

and I think thinking like that is why Dill's on bass

even though he really wanted drums

and the set I'm on's his

and I whack it extra hard, but it's alright

'cause he fucked my girl back in freshman year of highschool, so I think it evens out

.

Mike's screaming out his lungs like he didn't get through college on a choir scholarship

with a voice they used to have to cut your balls off to achieve 

but I guess he's having fun

and I'm wondering how long Mike is gonna stay a he 

'cause I remember all the drag and the jokes about castration 

and the way he rubbed his face on my chest in bed like a cat claiming its property 

sometimes I miss those days

other times I remember sharing bathroom stalls with the genuine animals that lived in those dorms 

.

I used to be Mike's, I'm nobody's, now

I am Bir Tawil between Egypt and Sudan, unclaimed due to a quirk in how the borders are drawn, lacking any valuable resources 

and some asshole in the pit is starting up a fight and distracting me from moping

fine by me, I guess 

when stuff like this happens, I like to pretend that I'm controlling them with my drums (or Dill's drums, in this case)

it's a lot of fun, and it's only gotten my ass beat in the parking lot 3 or 4 times so far

.

after the show, a few drunks tell me the show was awesome 

and I say thanks, but it doesn't really matter 

the show is always awesome when you're that plastered 

it's a free excuse to slam body into body 

like sex without the inevitable sense of regret and disappointment 

Dill says to be careful with the drums when I'm packing them up

it's his little way of showing that they're still his, even though I'm the only one who plays them

.

Montana hasn't said a word all show but in the parking lot he hands me a bottle of sodium nitrite

and he says he's not sure if he's killing himself before Christmas, but if he is, he wants me to make sure he's not making a mistake

I say okay and I stick it in my glove compartment

Montana's real quiet, so the only things I know about him are that he graduated MIT

and he fucking hates Christmas 

I have no clue why he fucking hates Christmas, that's his cross to bear

.

I'm so worn out from the show and the slow electric pulse in my head that I collapse on the couch

next to the pile of unfolded laundry I said I would get to two weeks ago

the fugitive escapes once again