I'm just a punk-rock Fozzie bear with a hippie streak that calls me out every morning and hits me in the gut with a fist wrapped in my own troubles and a baseball bat made out of my peccadillos. After I lie, bleeding the songs of my past in a pool of my mistaken identity for an hour or two, the ghost of my hopes and dreams passes by to rub the salt of confusion into my spiritual wounds and kick me in the emotional genitals. Finally some wayward moment of responsible thought will carry my broken body and pride to the local hospital of truth where I get a few shots of common sense, a cast on my broken heart, and some pills of friendship. And every night as I lay my swollen head on the pillow of ignorance I realize that analogies make me tired.