sǝuoſ ǝuıɥsunS

I shouldn’t be so happy. I feel a little bit guilty about it. Actually, there’s really no reason for me to be happy. Nothing’s really going my way… the woman I love doesn’t love me, or want me, and I’ll probably never see her, or hear from her again in my life… I’m working like an idiot, and I can’t scrape up enough scratch to sort things out quite right… my toilet has officially detached from the floor of my WC… I don’t know if I can stay in this apartment or not yet, and I’m on pins and needles waiting for word… I’m stuck on the neverending remix, I keep rewriting it, and rewriting it, and it just doesn’t come out how I hear it in my head… the delayed domestic release of my solo album has pushed it back to the customary Februay of next year release date… I miss my son so bad it can taste blood in my mouth, really. I am in physical pain out of longing for the smell, touch, sight and sound of my little boy… and I’ve been the moodiest motherfucker in the entire world lately…. nothing to cheer about, nothing to brag about.

But my vespa is running great, the sweet smell of San Francisco is blowing through my window, Touane is playing in the other room amd he makes my toes tap, my hips sway, and a little smile curl up in the corners of my mouth, I’ve lost weight, and I look wonderful, even my hair is behaving… my store orders are up to date, and the bills are all paid today.

Maybe I’m just slap happy, punch drunk, or unconscious at the bottom of a dogpile somewhere, but it sure feels like happy to me.