Simulacrum

A marching band just came down the street. I have no idea who they were or what the occasion was, but boy were they loud. They were playing "When the Saints Go Marching Home" right below my window - the same number my old housemate in Sac used to sing with his German mother while they neurotically scrubbed the shower together.

In case you're not familiar with this bit of my history, the bathroom shared a wall with my bedroom, so I could hear everything that went on in there. Everything. (I still don't know why people whisper Jesus when they're getting squirrelly on the toilet, but then again, why would I even take it there?)

Anyway, I used to like the song when I was kid, just the festive quality of it, but now, if they make another lap around the block and are still playing it, the eggs are coming out of the fridge, and the sniping will begin.

I don't care how well the past few months have gone. I don't care that I'm regurgitating old stories. My arm is feeling loose, and this second floor window is prime real estate.

Bring on the night.