When the drinks are done, the dames are one, and you're still a perverted little deviant bastard.
Slowly it crept up on me, like a spider stalking a fly, i am not aware of the precise moment when it ran up my spine and into the rear head nucleus but nonetheless it did. It was a slow ride, not an instant change, but a change over many days and countless hours, it came upon me like a bad drug cocktail, the wickedness was extreme. I came to a point, as i starred off of the dinner table and into the china cabinet behind so and so's head that i found what it was. What happens when you run out of bad women to write about? Or when your sexual misadventures are no longer adventures but journeys into ones dedicated vaginal canal? Whoa is me, or is it? What does an ugly write about when he's run out of ugly? It doesn't strike me like the kind of person to write about puppy dogs and unicorns. Or how the sun is a beautiful being and the gods are here to protect us. When you spend a chunk of your life written about your dissatisfaction with humanity and humans alike, you block yourself into those brackets. And what hell-bound brackets those are. At this time, life seems to be on an up swing, and i know damn well it'll reach a downswing, and that won't happen gradually as this upswing happened, but it'll be more like a snowball rolling down the snowy hill on that snowy day at 100mph. Fucking speed demon. As for this upswing, like i said, it came on like a bad drug cocktail and in a seemingly wicked way at the time.
Maybe this is all apart of growing up? Realizing that the world is a fucked place, no matter which way you turn it, but there's something here to get out of it. Optimism is for brainless drones, and being pessimistic is simply put being a sissy. We dismiss what we don't like out of some stupid selfish desire to not step outside of our bubble. You won't catch me dead in a Hollywood bar or at a Jason Mraz concert, because those things don't appeal to me. Comfort and beauty lay together in a small bar with a couple of seemingly human beings who have something to contribute to a conversation other than
Jersey Shore updates and an onslaught of useless causes and nonprofits as they drink their $12 red bull and vodka while simultaneousnessly twittering and facebooking their awareness to the preservation of unicorns in Saudi Arabia and checking in on foursquare. Does this really sound like something i want to be apart of? Yeah, didn't think so, but if i had to be there, well, there's got to be a way to make this work, and i can't hate those people for doing what they do, they're doing what they think is right, and maybe it is wrong? Who the fuck am i to tell them how to be? Can't change the world and can't change the people in it, but you can manage yourself, and isn't that what really matters anyway?
It sucks to not be angry anymore, i always felt that letting go of that anger would deprive me of ideas in use for writing. I was scared. I feared happiness would be the downfall to passion. These weeks have been a lull, but i'll tell you what, damn i'm feeling good on the inside, better than i've felt in the last 3 years of my life. Clarity is no longer a rarity at this point. Now it's no longer about searching, but maintaining. I feel old and settled.
Self indulgent writing (such as this) isn't done on my part for an applause or comment. I know i'm not the only person here who has too also felt this way. I write for me, and i write for that poor schmuck out there holed up in a shitty hotel room eating crackers and watching the lead based paint peel off the walls. If he can read this and feel better about himself than i've done something with my life. I actually hope he reads this and says, "this guy sucks, i can write better than him."
and i hope he does. Let me know where you're at man and i'll send you some 8 1/2 x 11, a stack of envelopes, some pencils and a razor blade to cut your coke and sharpen the lead with.
Some people come into your life, and some fall out. Those who fall out don't fall out forever, they'll be back around, sooner or later they've got to come pick up the shit they left at your house. Those who come in are harder to manage, because at first you want to push them away and out of your box. They don't deserve to be in your box, you built this fucking box, it's your box, box for you, need i say it again? Yes. it's your goddamn box that you built. But hey man, maybe that box you're in is starting to crinkle and split at the seams, maybe it smells like urine and puke? If they're willing to come in, than maybe you should. If they take a look around and leave, well, no harm no foul. But if they come in and sit down, don't comment on the stench and condition, and pull a loaf of bread out of their coat, then you can't turn away that kind of goodness. It's easy to think all people are shit (because most of them are) but in grouping the wicked, there will be some strays. Those strays are where it's at, they got fucking soul man, the right kind of vibe. Surround yourself with real, honest, good people who have their own opinions and that's the kind of party you want in your box. Then tomorrow, you can visit their box, and share that moldy piece of cheese you've been hording, you fucking rat.
