an intro to nothing uncommon
American stomachs ache with the rapture of a promise, a promise to conquer the world on an arrogant whim. I'm just another American waiting my turn. I'm staying calm, not squirming in my seat, just being a well behaved citizen. The dreams that have created our national identity since the organization of of public schools, clandestine speeches, and all that shit we're afraid to not believe are resting in the tree tops: plucked, they legitimize years spent on a guitar and random notepads in several families' homes all over Jackson County, Alabama; wasted, they legitimize a society's critiques on a wayward mind. I'm fucked from toe to top; chords, clangs, and beats are the only sounds I can stand to hear longer than a week; my writing is atrocious to a English major or any gifted junior high student and pretentious to the rest; and I'm long gone with my ideals. Oh if only life was a simple as a run on sentence. If only I could live how I want and say what I want and keep on adding my thoughts from second to second, all motivated by these chemicals excreted from glands and making their way to different areas in my brain, creating moods and this horrid fucking frame of insolence. I bore you because I bore me. AND this is the intro to nothing uncommon, someone wanting to do something they can't. With me, it just so happens to be writing and playing in a punk band. I have no preconceptions of the word punk. I knew what I heard on speakers and read on the net. It's something I've inherited, kind of like modern medicine or artistic surrealism. I'm a bastard weighing in on an idea bigger than my generation. I accept the hate along with the beautiful endowment of something I never could have started, or for a lighter matter, understood at it's birth.
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