index | archives | notes Monday, May. 19, 2008 1:56 a.m. << [ Luck, You Son of a Bitch ] >> There are lines across my screen. Did I put them here? Are they really here? Who knows. I slept all day and this is my punishment. Sometimes my dad talks about how he regrets what he did, regrets getting caught, and at every job interview, on every government form he wonders if they'll find out about His Record. He wasn't found guilty but he still has to divulge it, and when he found out I was arrested he said he wished he'd taught me better, and that he hoped this mistake wouldn't follow me the rest of my life like his did him. It hasn't, Christ, not even a fine for my big fuckup, my big mistake, the one defining mistake I get before I straighten up and fly right. My father's luck, stalking me in the nights, pinning me underneath its weight and screaming, "Look! Aren't I amazing? You can do anything you want and feel safe doing it!" Screaming, "You'll never have to feel the consequences of your actions! Doesn't this feel wonderful?" Screaming, "Isn't this great?" Screaming, "You'll never have to grow up!" Luck is exactly what I need. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org