Glitchin'

Trash day is a strange thing, the trumpeting sounds of hydraulic brakes conjuring up memories of Jurassic Park dinos and childhood mornings spent in a last minute dash to get the garbage to the corner before the truck passed your driveway. Should have listened to your mother, should have taken it out the night before you lazy troglodyte.

I’ve moved, for the trillionth time, into a nice little house with three others. Relocating happens so often that I don’t give it much thought. My life is motion marked by brief periods of stillness. Three months here, six there. Collect some junk then two months later drop it all back off at the same Goodwill you acquired it from.

Goodwill: Life, Recycled.

This is the American Dream at its finest; a room full of someone else’s previously owned shit that you now call your own. Lifestyle, recycled.

It all comes down to one bag. One ugly grey and yellow backpack purchased from a rather large chain “outdoor” store. I really hate this fucking bag. But it’s been the one constant, consistent artifact in a life of ever changing street signs, city names and home addresses.

History between us be damned, I still hate this fucking bag.

And now for some random pictures.



There's a fungus amongus.



Bro looking tired and old in an Irish kitchen.