It's one of those days I can't wait to rinse the salesman out of myself; when everything I say sounds so false it has the ring of truth, and everything I see is separated into categories, kind-of-interesting and not-so-interesting. I need to buy a barbeque to have on hand for the family reunion but it's too weird a day to buy a barbeque, cold and rainy. I'm not happy with a small victory, I'm only happy with tiny, microscopic victories, the ones only God can see, if there were to be a God. By 4 pm I decide to get out of bed and call the Donald Trump hotline for help. All lines are busy, so I go back to bed, another disenfranchised white man with deep psychological problems who makes an attempt once in a while to rise above his circumstance and do something positive; like listening to Townes van Zandt and deciding his version of "Dead Flowers" is clearly superior to The Stones, simply because a copy of the original is almost always better than the original itself, and flowers really do die.