Sweat runs along my sideburn on yet another red alert summer day in a pickup truck with less than adequate AC. I thought to myself – What am I doing here? I used to write poems, breathe philosophy and make music that hundreds appreciated. Yet I sit here, covered in sweat and chlorine waiting for the boss to drive to our next job. You see, I clean pools. Pools that cost more than I make in a year.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but this radio station is beginning to frustrate me beyond belief. Turning from the boss’ red state politicken radio is forbidden, but screw it. He ain’t here. Let’s see what’s on. An unfamiliar beat plays through the speakers when a voice saying “My Milkshake brings all the boys to yard…. damn right, it’s better than yours”.

“Seriously?” I’m stuck. Over analyzing this garbage that some program director decided to call good music and can only say “BUT MY MUSIC, MY STORY, IS BETTER THAN YOURS!”

Then again, maybe I’m just thirsty and in need of a milk shake.