It’s dark. Tenebrous, aphotic, no natural light whatsoever. It’s the easiest thing, spending your whole morning in womb-like inky blackness, but not this guy. Up and at ‘em.

I’m usually the first guy up in our band. All this means is I’m the first one hit by the farts, foot oder and general foulness bunk ally’s been incubating for the past eight hours. It’s formidable- even Oscar the Grouch is reaching for the Fabreeze- and I’m quickly navigating the discarded shoe obstacle course towards the relative oasis of the front lounge.

We’ve been blessed with very good bus drivers over the years- maniacs to a man, but smooth and steady on the road. But pizza boxes, half empty beer cans and bags of Cheetos don’t possess gravity defying powers, and we’re in a moving metal tube after all. I spend a few minutes picking things up, wet wiping exposed surfaces, and I fire up the Keurig. It’s monotone whirring lulls me from my somnolence as I…wow, this thing got off the rails pretty quick. This is a goddamn tour bus, not Geoffery fucking Chaucer.

Writing’s a funny thing. I’ve always enjoyed it, and getting my mind out on paper's always felt as natural as playing guitar or crafting tunes. Am I a good writer? Subjective, but probably not especially, no. I write how I talk, though I know I’d be throat punched if I tossed around “aphotic” at the Crying Wolf- even East Nashvillians aren’t that Emo.

This is the type of BS I mull over while sipping lukewarm Keurig juice in the front lounge. We’re bouncing along, a few hours out from the venue, and I don’t feel like reading, playing Halo or contemplating the amount of Chef Boyardee in the cupboard above me- I just want to sit here, feel a bit sorry for myself and think about the road not traveled toward the actuarial sciences.

Here I am. I love this, it’s what’s I know, no longer my new normal but state of being. A grown man, smart, capable, careening down some midwestern highway on a pirate ship filled with lost boys, a ship on which I can’t defecate. That’s bus rule numero uno. Ask the driver to stop, hot bag if you must, but under no circumstance does one defoul the onboard crapper. It’s for liquid and show only.

Ok, this is getting real dumb. Maybe it’s time for some Halo, after all.