L.A Earthquake: My Heart Stopped But Not For The Reasons You Think!

I was on the hinterland of sleep when the Earth started shaking my bed and I heard some glass breaking in the other room. My first thought was: I gotta save my TV!

You see, we recently bought a 42-inch LCD. That baby is precious.

I’m beginning to think there’s some sort of parataxic malignancy to being born in the 70’s!

Not a child of disco but a throwaway fuck, a backseat mistake commited to Steely Dan.

Beaten and punched before you ever came out…

Now you’re nodding along to Thom Yorke. The world spins like a disco ball but no one dances anymore. We lean on the walls and watch the party revolve. You witness trees become stale novels and ideas become t-shirts.

I sold my banjo on Ebay and now there’s no family music.

They raised the price on the washing machines so now I’m all out of quarters.

Got a haircut and now I can’t feel my heart.

The walls were rattling and glass was shattering and I remembered suddenly, the thought popping in my head like a champagne cork on New Year’s, there was a goddamn Earthquake happening!

It was my eighth or ninth quake and it wasn’t all that big, just a little ripple and shimmy, but my nails are frail and slid out of the holes in the plaster like a teenager trying not to cum. The picture frame broke and the artwork I made came crashing down to the carpet like a fading star. My army men surrendered to gravity, met their death in shag.

What a tragedy!

Our hearts are tectonic plates that crash and crack in the night… and when they get all entangled and set on fire bombs blast in holy lands. You can’t solve this crises by holding hands. But Buddha cries I know we can. I know we can.

I throw coffee down my neck, trying to wake up in the morning! I scratch the sleep from my dreams and clear the cobwebs.

Let’s hit the freeways. Drive your car into mine… the metallic kiss of accidents.

I think I broke my pinky finger and I don’t remember how… and that’s a true story, but everything else I’ve said is a lie.

I’m not starving, nor am I an artist. I am like you, just waiting for someone else to come and clean it up.

I am the phantom beating of a heart that stopped.

Have you ever thought about what’s in the water you drink? Have you ever thought about how you look to a glass of water? Probably like some hideous monster. Like some perfect snapshot…

Is that the picture you’re going to put on your book jacket?

Or the one by the train tracks in Wyoming? Holding a brown bottle of beer?

When you were 22, you had it all figured out; all written down, all colored-in!

I wrote the textbook on being 22… when I was 23.

Being 32 is much more of a kick in the pants…

Remember when people used to listen to the radio?

When phones hung on walls and not belt loops?

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