Five Minutes To Kill...

Five minutes until I am off to the strip club; off to do the dance in the booth for the girls and play the songs and say the names and collect the cash at the end of the night. I am so fucking sick of this job.

Here I sit, at the hub of my thoughts here in this town. The little coffee shop between 7th and 8th on Germain. I've got a double mocha in hand and a cigarette always lit. That's how I live my life, folks. I keep hearing that Spring is here, a time for the heart to find its feet. That's true, I guess, but for these last few weeks it seems I have been on autopilot. I began packing the other night. I think it's one of my favorite things to do. I don't really know why, except that it is a "straight, in your face" indication of change. At this point there's nothing that makes me happier.

Soon there will bee some goodbyes, and these, my friends, I am not looking forward to.

One in particular...

I'll leave out her name, but of course, there is always a she. We have agreed to make goodbye mixes, and mines two discs long. They are to be exchanged the day of my leave. That is going to be a tough goodbye, for sure.

I do apologize for the lack of dedication that this entry holds. I suppose when I am pressed for time I can never really gather what I want to say in the best way to say it. I am a lengthy person by design. Now I really do have five minutes left, and I'm going to spend them talking to the cute co-worker behind the counter whose having a bad day.

Until that day, my friends.

-C