Trembling rumbling in my belly like a shot of cheap bourbon makes the taste in my mouth sour and the feeling in my hands is weak it doesn't feel right like that feeling right after you throw up and you feel as weak and helpless as a newborn. Maybe it will pass quickly or maybe it will last all week but deep down I know it won't go quickly I know I have erred or maybe not but waiting is the worst part; just waiting to know how it's all going to turn out.
There is a metaphor in here, where I see the bits and pieces of my life reflected back in these seemingly insignificant events and all the hardship of life is worn on the faces of the carnies who pull a lever without distraction from the Arbys which drips sauce onto fingers. Change is good. Change is bad. Being paranoid like Stalin means thinking every move is plunging headfirst into disaster. Am I like Stalin?
Am I like Stalin?