In ThE gRiPs of A BeER cAn!

Dad snoring, "zZZzz."

Mom screaming, "Where the hell is that damn remote?"

Ed sipping a brew, "It's over there."

Sasha sighing, "Why do I keep ending up in Vegas?"

In the grips of a beer can. Cold in my right palm, dripping condensation. Filled with golden goodness, postponing the idea of "WHAT THE FUCK AM I TO DO?"

I, the optimistic punk over here am having a hard time coming up with answers to my own question. I find myself saying the line, "I'm looking up... for a piano to fall."

For those of you who are not understanding the meaning of this saying, it means exactly this to me.

I'm an optimist. I am always believing I will better from a shitty situation. I am always looking up. But lately... the only reason I find myself keeping an eye to the sky is because I'm waiting for that piano to fall... so I can get the hell 'outta the way! That my friends is more of what we call a realist.

Unnerving.

I know.