Ramblings From a Lazy Drunken Hillbilly

It's almost two in the morning here in Alabama, and I really have little clue as to where I want to take this post. I do know that this will be my weekly blog update about all the awful, strange, and pointless thoughts that fill my head on a nearly constant basis, but the point of it? That I do not know. I may not even have a point, and none of this really matters anyway.

After a year of depression along the western side of the this once great country, I have finally returned to my adopted homeland of the South. I left the South after Muddy Roots of last year and headed for California, and since then I have spent time in Nevada, Washington, and finally another return to California. This, to say the least, worked out miserably for my mental psyche. Not that my mind was ever in great shape, but it got severely worse over the last twelve months travelling the west in search of some fictional idea of being alright. I tried it drunk, I tried it high, I tried stone cold fucking sober, then I tried it even fucking drunker. Nothing mattered. It's just life, and it is what it is.

Now, I've been what my mother lovingly refers to as "the family's rolling stone" since I was eighteen, and I've never really let up on my rambling. It may sound cliche, but I really have been everywhere you can go on a Greyhound bus in this country. I've lived in New York, Alabama, North Carolina, Idaho, Washington, Wisconsin, Illinois, California, Nevada, and probably some other places I was too blacked out to remember over the last seven years. That's a fuckload of displacement, all in search of some idea that maybe I'll find someplace somewhere that will make my personal issues melt away. This, of course, is fairy tale bullshit. No matter where you go you're still you. I will still be the lovesick drunk I am, no matter what shit hole I'm resting my head in, and I'm alright with that.

You have to make life work for you. It's never going to be great, just know that right now. It's life, and it's a real motherfucker on it's best days. In order to survive this life sentence you must learn to get by on the little things. Happiness is being under southern skies, smoking a hand rolled cigarette, and drinking a glass of Irish while sharing stories of your fucked up past with a good friend. I've searched this country high and low, and I've yet to find something that tops that, my friends.

Slainte

Chris Miller is back in South to terrify the believers.