Crashbox

Somewhere in the latent heat of this bleary-eyed morning I stagger to a car with no alternator and a cloud of blue oil-smoke blowing out the back that would hide a box van full of Illegal immigrants. Why, why do I refuse to respect this hapless receptacle of my soul with the simple rest it requires for continued existence? Ah well, a night in the Santa Ana winds with guitars and a hacky sack, fresh guacamole and my best friends. Worth every pain. Some one please wake me from this giddiness, this fog-brained stupor of joy and contentment. Life is supposed difficult, right? And it is, sometimes, but occasionally, perhaps only once in a lifetime, God gives a Gift, a gift of Selflessness and Charity; and life is suddenly truly worth living, and all the hardships are but flat tires and blown radiators on the Great Road Trip of Life. And we all know that with a dab of grease here, and a tweak of a wrench there, and you'll be on your way again. But enough! I'm dead this morning, and will not properly rise from the crypt until the Rites of Sleep have been solemnly performed...