Stampeded.

Trampled on, exhausted and ready to go back to being subjected to the soulless rotation of the "top 40."
"The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth" has once again ended. The country music has ran out of it's chances to fire it's victimizing twang at my inner child. The straw hats, daisy dukes and shit kickers are being packed up again until next year. The baby calfs no longer have to participate in some "barbaric" spectacale in order to satisfy the crowds of drunkards, and the wait times at abortion clinics and price of plan b are about to triple--Stampede is over.

I read yesterday that taxi drivers didn't profit off of the latest installment of insanity, but on the flip-side, I was able to get a cab easily every night of the show. I am a little bewildered by my exhaustion right now, it can't possibly be from Stampede. I feel energetic, but drained. I was only on the grounds for a total of 3 hours, and 1.5 of that was watching Reba McEntire. I think that brilliant Niki B is right about all of the energy from Stampede Park spilling onto 17th Avenue and through the city.

With the midway being disassembled over the next twelve hours, I feel it only fitting to hop off of the merry-go-round.
I feel like slipping off to the sidelines for the rest of the month, that could be foolish.

Lately I have been feeling quite unrealistic, sometimes I feel like I got my emotional ass kicked. This will end up being one of the great stories that I can tell later about "back in the day." Boy meets boy. Boy meets girl. Boy fucks boy over. (Unintentionally, of course.)

I got stoned and listened to the fireworks from the porch tonight. I never did make it down to see them. I suppose I could have made it down to the show tonight, but for some reason, the energy from that part of the city just didn't feel all to inviting. Tonight I raise a toast of sleepy-time tea to the party 30 blocks away.
Until next year, you crazy bastard!