Coming back to work has seriously bummed me out. I think this must be why Americans never take extended vacations. When you take vacations your immunity to the bullshit is decimated, and coming back to the gray walls is enough to make you feel suicidal.
Never before has being a housewife or vagabond looked so good. If only I had learned to play Lu (that’s what I call my guitar, it’s short for Lucinda), so I could busk for change in all the cities I would travel to.
I’m in that wanting to curl up in a fetal position and cry phase of the back-to-work depression. Everything seems and feels so pointless. It will probably pass, but for now it sucks ass.
In an effort to cheer myself up, I am listening to nothing but Paul Westerberg today — except for “Suicaine Gratifaction.” That one’s too painful to listen to when you’re standing on the bridge. Even on a good day, I’m reading to shove my head in an oven after listening to Suicaine.
So I’ve started out with the bootleg of the first night at the Guthrie back in 2002. It makes me happy, because it was the first time I ever got to witness St. Paul live and in person. I still get a little choked up when that version of “I Will Dare” comes on Kathleen Turner Overdrive remembering how overcome with emotion I was hearing it live.
See, I’m starting to feel better already and I’ve only made it to song three (“Mr. Rabbit” it makes me laugh when Paul sings “suck my dick” because I am a distant relative of Beavis).