All in a day's work

I.

     I know this place. I’ve been here many, many times, but something is different about it this time. I remember the damp and musty smell very well. It was very humid down there, almost saturating. Even after I would leave here to go stay the night at my girlfriend’s apartment, I would carry that odor in my nostrils for hours. I particularly liked the nights when I would blend that moist, dank basement air with the metallic scent of newly spilt blood. I can almost taste the iron in it now as I think about it, like when I would get a paper cut in kindergarten and suck the wound to stop the bleeding.

Sometimes I wondered if my girlfriend could smell it on me too, especially during sex, and if it turned her on the same way it did me. It was almost as if the fragrance

Meet me at Midnight

Bones rattle and skin stretches,

Deforming.

Reforming and revising what dwells within.

Synchronicity is impeccable,

as I give in to what has to happen.

Are you too old to rock?

   As I sit here in my not so comfortable chair, pondering a topic to write about, I can't help but to think about age. Being old. This is most likely due to it being (once again) my birthday tomorrow, and for some reason I'm not caring much for celebration. Do I really need to commemorate the fact that I am one step closer to the grave? Whatever. I suppose I could acknowledge all that I have achieved so far in my three plus decades of existence. I should be grateful that I have lived as long as I have, right? Sure, why not? I'll drink to that. Cheers!

   I guess my real issue is, when is old too old? When should we hang up the fingerless leather gloves? Is there an age limit to rock out with your cock out? When do you know your too old to be flirting with those hot 24 year old chicks at the keg party down the street, or jumping in the pit at the Slayer concert over at Pine Knob? (Yup, I said Pine Knob bitches.)

   Well, I guess I'll find out the answer to life's tough questions through my own experiences eventually. Until then, you can find me driving back from the latest metal show, doobie in my fingerless leather gloved hand, jammin' some Necrophagist with the stereo cranked, sonically assaulting the old foreign couple in the Honda next to me, who look at me in disgusted horror as they quickly roll the windows up. If you see me, flag me down and I'll give you directions to that kegger.

- Ian "Prolifik" Pfister