The Gonzo Wolf

Up and waiting for the storms to begin.

I need this.

There’s something linking my spirit and its need to absorb cool rainfalls. Those Black Irish roots long for a home they never knew.

In my travels, the two places where I felt my vibrations sync the most with those of the surrounding land were the Pacific Northwest & Upstate New York. There’s just something about deep-forest thunderstorms and snowy woods that make me happiest. I’ve never lived in either; at least not within this lifetime.

Fate: I recently stumbled upon an obscure documentary (half-asleep; early morning) about a small group of Spaniards who were shipwrecked in Northern Ireland. They adapted to the culture, bred, and well…here I sit. A lone, doomed ship with a handful of survivors…

It explains my hatred of boats, my fear of black water, my alcoholism, my love of a good brawl, and my obsession with chicks who look like fairies.

My DNA results? Northern Irish, Scottish, and a tiny dash of Spanish.

For the moment, I could just settle for a thunderstorm.

Goddamn capitalism, slavery, and generations of presumably incredible sexual escapades somehow spat me out onto a land where it rarely rains. Texas is a pimple upon America’s leather-clad ass, and our governor wants to lance it sans anesthetic as a potential 9th-input.

Corpses care not if you violate their nostrils and the likes; obviously. I don’t know this factually; they’re dead! Why would they care?

Pure speculation.