And the Worms Ate Into His Brain

The jury brought in a guilty verdict
And the judge he sentenced me to death
Midnight in a prison storeroom
With leather straps across my chest
Sheriff, when the man pulls that switch, sir
And snaps my poor head back
You make sure my pretty baby is sittin' right there on my lap

They declared me unfit to live
Said into that great void my soul'd be hurled
They wanted to know why I did what I did
Well, sir, I guess there's just a meanness in this world
--Bruce Springsteen, "Nebraska"

It's official. I've hit rock bottom.

My gradual, downward spiral began about 12 months ago: 1) My girlfriend dumps me via email; 2) My health takes a nosedive; and 3) My writing career goes on life support. Last week, I lost my day job. (For months, I often listened to Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska" on my iPod during my morning commute, a reflection of the nihilistic despair I've been feeling.)

Last Wednesday, the management (which didn't give me a real chance to heal) just took me out back like an old mule and put a slug in the back of my head. I would have preferred to go out like this:



I plan on spending the time off healing my broken-down body, getting some real rest, going to a few Yankee games, doing some writing, and catching a few fish.