Say Good bye Before leaving.

My greatest thoughts come at night while I lay in bed. By morning they're gone, unrecorded.

I didn't start biting my fingernails until about six months ago. And the gray hairs that now sprout so freely from my head weren't there six years ago. There could be a specific reason for all this, but I don't know why. Oh, wait, I do seem to remember now: I'm a journalist. I'm 25 years old, almost 26. I feel older than that. But at the same time, I feel strangely underage. Must everything be so complicated? Here's the funny thing -- life isn't so complex. But I would have nothing in this life if it weren't for my ability to complain. As I sit here on my tacky-colored couch at 11:39 p.m., I hear nothing but police helicopters in pursuit of a madman who is surely trying to kill me. It doesn't seem as if the authorities are having any luck finding this escaped lunatic. Let us thank the good Lord above that my rotten door that hardly ever closes properly has three full-proof (or foolproof, if you prefer) locks. Yes, my existence is in good hands, rest assured. I can finally have a good night's rest. I just peeked through the dusty white blinds. It looks as if the rowdy helicopter is circling somewhere in Koreatown, but it could be as far as Downtown. I've never been a good judge of distance. But I hope they catch the fucker soon, be it a man or woman, because this noise is driving me insane. My yellowing teeth have been brushed and I am all ready for sleep: that place I like to go before the morning sweeps me into a zombie-like mode of reading monotonous music blogs and drinking coffee from little white Styrofoam cups. The good life, some might call it, but not I. Living like a hog has never much suited me. I've owned a hog, and while they are without a doubt disgusting creatures, I can't help but pity and envy them at the same time. What other animal can get away with living in such filth and at the same time taste so good? It almost makes me think, but doesn't quite get me there. I have far too many other important thoughts to ponder in this short little window of a day God likes to tease me with. Such foolishness. Hold that thought, but only for only a second. The magician makes himself disappear, with nothing more than a cheap black wand.

Sitting In The Waiting Room.

I am a patient boy. I wait, I wait, I wait, I wait. My hair is still wet, resting politely on my two shoulders. For warmth is a soft burgundy sweater I wear for Christmas, given to me by my mom and dad. All of my grandparents are dead, resting silently on the clouds. I'm sitting on a hole that grows deeper and deeper with each day. Decomposing foam. I should either get it fixed or cover it with silver duct tape. It's dark outside and I'm driving down Vermont, headed toward Hollywood Boulevard, a street I've learned to hate. At least it's better than Wilshire. Mexican roads. Going to a party that's leading up to one of those big music awards shows. Starts with a "G" and ends with an "s." You know the one of which I speak. My fading Jaguar-Racing-Green truck doesn't have a radio. Well, it does, but music doesn't speak from its dash; only talk radio, which can sometimes be annoying during a Friday evening on the town. As usual, I use my iPod to illegally listen to music while I steer. Peeking up every second or two, I scroll through the backlit-blue screen of my white music box. I arrive at Fugazi, a Washington, D.C., outfit I didn't expect to listen to, but thought would be a nice change of pace from my usual ballads of depression and assaulting electro-punk thrashes. Fugazi: "13 Songs." The one with the red cover; black writing. The rolling muted bass takes me back to the summer of 2003. Writing in the sprial green notebook about those "authentic Armenian eyes." The ones that have since found love and marriage in France, by way of Los Angeles. I'm on Sixth Street in New York City. Manhattan. The wet sidewalks smell of garbage roasting in the sun. East Village monkey bars found in Tompkins Square Park by the basketball courts, across the street from the bakery where by the night's twinkle veggie burgers are cooked and sealed, and by day wedding cakes are manufactured for a little extra cash. That shithole Cherry Tavern down the street. Little India, they call it. Thin fluorescent bulbs highlight the doorway. Only $5 for a shot of Montezuma Gold Tequila and a cool can of Tecate, with a lime. "Waiting Room." Whiskey and Pabst Blue Ribbon. Oh, the memories. But I won't forget that song, or the jukebox from which it came -- ever. And I'll remember forever that evening in the dive of all dives. I seem to recall a cute, petite bartendress with a nice ass. Isn't that right, Herb? But I wouldn't live through it again, man. Not in a million fuckin' years. Can't place a price tag on nostalgia, can you? Function is the key, and that's hard to do after three Red Bull and Vodkas.