The foo is oozing

"One day I'll have enough to get more."
-Foo Fighters (fighters of foo)

Knee-jerk Disclaimer: Squeeze cheese wriggles through the next words.

Can you tell that the post-tour version of me has an affinity for the music of the Foo Fighters? - And especially for the song "skin and bones." Dave Grohl says little more than the words skin and bones, but the two one-consonant words are a paragon of my current state of mind. My ego speaks her thoughts of conceit as I type, for she believes that there are those who wish to unravel the cat's cradle in my head; the strings woven through the folds of spongy brain tissue. In case an admirer, potential stalker, or merely an individual with an obsessive personality is reading my caffeine induced words, I shall tease apart the lyrics for their hidden value.

"Lately I've been measurin' – seems my time is growin' thin." This line hints to the recent orders of the powers that be - my parents - to procure a job, lest their resentment and disappointment grow to an exorbitant amount. Thus, time sheds its furry coat, revealing the pink and scabbed skin of adulthood. Each night, slept at the backdoor of autumn, is spent in the clutch of worry; as the hands of responsibility fall down the face of the clock, the loom of student loans step into my path.

"Wind me up and watch me spin." Gepato holds the strings tied to my four limbs. He moves them to the rhythms of the stable-life-samba. He pulls my hands in revision of a resume to boast of my education and professional skills, and each morning my unwilling feet are dragged from the bliss of dreams to the desk of reality. I feel as if a manipulative Damien-like child is twisting a metal rod stuck from my back, laughing as I spin from the speedy circles of ambitions to the fall of financial security. Wind me up and watch me spin you little bastard.

"All worn out and nothing fits." My stitches are loose and fraying, and as of late my surroundings have called for a costume change. As I rifle through the tailor-made suits of potential careers hanging in the closet, I find I am the enlarged Bruni-locks. I dutifully try on each ensemble, but the business suit sags at my shoulders, the nylons tear around my skinned knees, and the toes of my borrowed black heels are scuffed. My reflection scowls at my ill-fitting appearance.

"Brennevin and cigarettes" – these are the vices of avoidance.

"The more I give, the less I get." Many advocates of the straight 'n' arrow path – as it so quaintly called – loathe the very sight of my words. They spit the artificially sweetened taste from their mouths. Stephen King taunts me with his words. Diablo Cody sneers at my attempts to mimic her style. Geraldine Brooks laughed in my face when at the conclusion of her novel I stood open mouthed and tingly. Yes, that was an intelligence bomb. The squares (a term I momentarily borrow) spray my passion with the oozing foam found in conveniently located fire extinguishers, and insist instead on the cool touch of pin skirts and button down shirts displaying only the very tip of cleavage.

"I'm just skin and bones." I am one of the many who wish to transfer the life in their head to that of their corporeal world. The whole length of my cleavage calls to be seen from the view of loose tank tops and altered band t-shirts that still hang at the back of my closet. Give me a temporary job to cause a haughty chuckle at the table of professionals, a nomadic life to fill my pages, and an orthodox faith to my writing. Sadly, when made, a most needed program was left out, and my ability to function as a robot was lost. This one is only skin and bones.

"Tell my mom I'm doin' fine."

Now can someone please help me get a visa? That, or increase the cash flow and release me from the shackles of debt.