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The Old Days by Ray Printer Friendly

I am a zombie right now. Except for instead of craving brains, I sort of want pizza and about two days of sleep. I am in no way prepared for the world around me, which is fine, because it isnít expecting anything from me at the moment. Music plays from the speakers, and it is not difficult to imagine that it was composed and performed solely for the purpose of lulling me to sleep. I grin at the pin-holed speakers and smileónot this time, little speaker fairies that hide behind the fine-meshed metal.

Recovering from a mad-dash trip to Ft. Worth to visit Trey and Carey that really shouldnít have trashed me this bad. My princess and I arrived at their newly-purchased hacienda around nine last night, and finally went to bed around four thirty this morning. Laughing, conversing, having a good time. No clubs, no bars, and no rowdiness to speak of. A bottle brandished towards the end, but it didnít seem like excess.

Yet, here I am, barely able to think, eyes heavy, a metal plate of stupid resting atop my brain, making the process of preparing myself for the work week a bit difficult. Phantom laughter, phantom music, and shadows sliding around the corners of my mind.

We sat around discussing home insurance, hot-water heaters, termites. We discussed adulthood, and how it seemed to have finally managed to track us down.

Damn it, I feel old.


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