Was it too much to ask?

Was it too fucking much to ask?
 
A "Thanks", a nod of recognition, a "Hey, thanks for covering for me".  This seemed fairly reasonable to his ears so of course God saw fit to deny him as He had denied him all else he really wanted in life the past...ever.
 
Sure, he wanted the same materialistic crap as the rest of us, he was only American, after all.  But down to the root of it, he wanted to be happy.
 
He didn't see it coming any time soon.  He was still living off his last paycheck having gotten lost in the system, his roomates meant well but invariably drove him to the brink of sanity as pebbles of calm skittered off the edge into the psychotic canyon.   It was part and parcel of being part of Kathleen Turner Overdrive, the fourth-best cover band this side of the Missip', but he was finding himself increasingly disenchanted with the totality of everything.
 
He hadn't written a song since she left him.  Unless you counted "Fuck You, Fuck You, Die, Die, Die", which he didn't.  It was only 48 seconds anyway.   The bile rose to his throat as he took another pizza box and shoved it in a garbage bag.  The good news was they did not host a party Saturday night that he had to clean up after.

The bad news was they of course had an afterparty Saturday night which he cleaned up after.  He tried to bang out a song on his guitar, but it was one damn thing after another.  Loud vomiting, that damn new Mary J. Blige song--what the FUCK was a dancery? Or holleration for that matter?!--or, of course, his roomates wearing out some girls from the sorority down the block.
 
He cracked his own neck and sighed deeply.    Down the stairs laid the garbage can, and he looked at the moon.  Wondered if she could see it.
 
The urge to run filled him.  He didn't know where to, and then he did.

Somewhere better.  Where he was happy and the world was self-cleaning and he didn't feel like a baseball that had been hit so hard it was beginning to uncork at the center with the seams coming apart and ruining the skin.
 
He sighed again and went back inside.
 
Careful to lock the door, he went into his room and picked up his trusty guitar.
 
His hands played "One Step Closer" without a second thought.