Note To Self: Don’t

Note to self: when the apartment is strewn with two-week-old party wreckage, half-unpacked luggage, guitar cases and cables, do not shake another vodka martini. Even if it’s infused over blueberries.

The upside is, the inevitable hangover woke me up early; early enough to clean up this mess — the dirty clothes and dishes, the mailers, lyric sheets, picks, magazines and mail littering every available surface. Then I packed again — I hit the road for Ohio and Indiana tonight, returning Monday for rehearsal, and Tuesday’s big “Almost Home” CD release at Sin-é.

Think I should be concerned about the Interstate sniping around Columbus, OH? ‘Cuz I am — kinda’. See, things are just going too darned well right now — the MTV, the record, the heart, mind, the soul — it’s all good. Too good. Something’s gotta’ give. Here’s the back story: my parents divorced when I was ten, and I was assaulted and hospitalized for three days when I was 17. Both random, both out of the blue. So it’s fully and completely my expectation that things go wrong when you least expect them to. Perhaps all this paranoia will serve me well. Perhaps my expectation that shit will go wrong will avert shit going wrong. If not, don’t say I didn’t warn you, er, me.

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