Alex Favacho fucked up my back

It’s been a drag out fuck shout ball slap of a night.  I look like shit.  I’m doing work I should be proud about.  I look like some fucked up version of myself.  If I’m burning myself out I may as well be a tweaker.

About a week ago, Alex Favacho dragged me around by my legs in the house I got fucked up in all the time.  I was a bum.  I was a hostess at a Mexican restaurant.  I got drunk all the time.  I slept with random strangers.  I’d wake up and be just fine.  I got a legitimate job and got fired.

About a week ago, Alex Favacho dragged me around by my legs as he had done a billion other times.  He’d always trip me or judo maneuver me onto the ground.  This time instead of laughing it off my back hurt.  A dull ache has persisted in my tailbone.  Here I am.  Glued. Glued to a computer screen.  Writing this is a little break from little sleep.  I’m in graduate school.  I work 20 hrs a week in a coveted position, but I can’t help but feel this is all sorts of wrong.

Alex Favacho could never hurt my back.  The good times could never end.  I want to push edges and expand limits of what’s possible.  There’s no writhing on the floor in a drunken sweat.  No dancing.  No mornings full of lavish breakfasts and laughter.  The body is a cruel bitch.