Cabin Fever

It's a good time to blog.

Here's the thing.  Every now and then... I go into heat.  I'm not a cat, obviously.  But it's sorta like that.

I get restless.  I get fidgety.  I start thinking about all the things I miss doing in my life.  I get to feeling like the walls in this house are just closing in on me, like my life is winding down, and I don't have anything left.  Like my bones are going to burst out of my skin and go screaming down the street looking for pussy, booze, and cigarettes.

I miss, in no particular order:

• Eyeliner
• Live metal shows
• Band shirts
• Smokes
• Whiskey
• Half-laced boots
• Having my hair grabbed
• Biting
• Kissing
• Car sex
• Bars
• Talking to and laughing with strangers
• Sleeping wherever I ended up
• Being in new places
• Having my hair stroked by new fingers
• Girls in jackets with cigarettes between their fingers
• Eating pussy
• Did I mention live music

I miss all these things and more.  I miss flitting around from town to town, meeting new people I never had to trust, and lighting smokes for incredible women who were never, ever boring.

Not that I know women who are boring - I don't.

There is something inside of me scratching at the walls and going batshit up in here.

I need to howl at the proverbial moon.

I need to prove I can be 18 again.  Even though I will never be 18 again.

To do any howling right now would probably wake up the toddler and imprint upon him some internal and deep-rooted fear of night-howling.  He'd end up growing up to live somewhere urban with no wildlife and jumping away from the neighbor's dogs.

I mean that would just be bad parenting.

Help me, Jesus, I have cabin fever inside of my own house and my own head.

Am I ever going to be me again?