My mama let me grow up to be a nerd cowboy

Waylon Jennings wrote me a song back in the day.

See, I’ve been waiting for the right song. The one that will waltz into my life with uncannily appropriate lyrics which capture my essence. Waylon’s lyrics describe me to a disconcerting degree of accuracy.


Well, it’s almost about me.

I need to adjust some of the lyrics, tweak the facts…voila, it’s me the song is about. I am a cowboy, gosh darn. I’m a modern-day cowboy. I ride a desk during the day, punching keys on a keyboard, talking on the dreadful phone to some delirious people, manipulating numbers for the corporate masters. I don’t rustle but I am a free soul and I ride freely.

The essence of cowboy beats in my heart. I have never been tamed though many have tried. I have always disappointed others and surprised myself. I’m unknowable for I barely perceive myself. I shakily sustain the civilized paradigm which I furiously despise but I wouldn’t know what to do if I landed outside the system. I am a cowboy at heart. I’ve never slept under the moon or faced down an outlaw. My days are clouded with derangement of a professional, modern nature, the derangement of vacant corporate-pawn stares and futile exhaustion. I stare down the derangement of unhappiness and emptiness throughout my life.

My villains sleep in air-conditioned houses and drive expensive overseas machinery. They wear sharp clothes and purport to live sophisticated lives which they flaunt vainly and proudly but little do they know I just don’t care. I wouldn’t want their materialistically prosperous lives of fleeting value. I don’t care because I am a cowboy and in my heart rests the stranger, the wayward passerby who can’t abide by the artificial temperament of refined society.

Waylon wrote about me, man.
He wrote about a wild, fleeting soul who can’t swallow the bitter feasts of mannerly society and its pretensions.

I am the cowboy, the lurker, the one who didn’t fit in, and tired of trying, grew restive and spiteful and finally realized in spite of himself that fitting in is greatly overrated because to “fit in” only means one must don the shallow facade of idiocy and the cowboy cannot tolerate being the idiot.

The cowboy prefers his company because it is the only one qualified to guide him truly.

I am a cowboy and I ride the internal moonlit trails of my pitch black mind. No one has ever gotten in, and thus, no one has ever escaped. I am the soulful wanderer and the air of mystery supplants my tenderness by virtue of unconcern and disinterest, not because of distorted malice.

Them that don’t know him won’t like him and them that do,
Soemtimes won’t know how to take him,
He ain’t wrong, he’s just different but his pride won’t let him,
Do things to make you think he’s right.

The cowboy can only be true to himself and skirt the psychic horrors of alienation.