compromises

I make bargains with God. I used to just ask for things. Two things, alternately.
Make me happy. Make me skinny. Make me happy. Make me skinny.
Boys wear depression better than they do body image disorders.

The problem is, I never trusted God.
I've watched too many episodes of the Twilight Zone.
I get struck by an oncoming truck. A happy idiot. A skinny paraplegic.

I bargain with God.
Happiness. Attractiveness. Productivity. Health.
I want to contribute to the greater good, but I want people to want to fuck me too. Give me three of those four things, and I will devote my life to making art, and things of beauty in your name. Maybe it's not a fair trade.

Another weekend pays the bills.

I spun music at a pub, and I didn't ask for any drinks until I was sure that people liked me. I went home drunk, but I didn't make any art.

I played the songs people requested.
Songs I thought I'd left behind with the last century.

Disturbed.
311.
Eagle Eye Cherry.
Buckcherry.

These aren't my jams, but I was able to put em all together alright.
Maybe God will answer my prayers, because it seems like the one thing I have to offer, is timing.