I wonder to myself if anything will be okay, fuck one thing. Fuck, "It'll be okay."
Probably not, given my history. I wish I could "choke smoke from my Ferrar." But alas, I do not own one.
It's been a most, very, certainly, undoubtedly hot minute, since a few things have occurred for me. Most of them not around due to my own choosing, some I feel I have no control.
I was set to jet-set, but couldn't exactly get that to happen. This time, on another's request, not mine. But I suppose they changed their mind. . .
When they changed their number. Hmph. . .
I haven't flown but they always manage to get themselves into the air just take-off, leaving me at the airport terminal crying, holding myself and getting security looking very intently at me. I probably look like a terrorist too scared to set off a bomb. Mom! Nope, jail.
- First one goes back to the last one.
- Then another leaves for her other.
- Then another doesn't just leave, she ghosts. Ghosted son.
Sitting here in my navy blues, I wonder to myself if anything will be okay.
This book? Who knows. Great Hendrix song too. People by it, people praise me for doing it, but not a single one them reads it. The next one? I have better hopes for actually.
My love life? Next.
Work: we'll see upon transfer.
Beer helps, not by much, but it sure alleviates. It sure does. Not to mention tastes terrific, the expesnive stuff anyway. Not Vodka Tonics, that stuff shoots even the most vile of women right passed drunk and straight to complete and total monster.
Cigarettes don't do anything for me but clog me up, but fuck it. I've seen people four times as old, smoke and die from unrelated illnesses. So I puff, puff, and do not pass. I have a nice spot I'll drive to just to have one, my own little gift to myself. I wish it was a balcony in some downtown district at night with lights, people, horns, cops on horses, food smells. Or so high up you jut get that faint honking and wind, but alas. . .
"I still feel you, in the taste of cigarettes.
Why could I ever want to.
Just tell me, it's tearing you apart.
Just tell me, you cannot sleep."
I have all these demons that float through my wet, red stream of blood, begging me to embrace them; powerless, I oblige.
I don't usually do this, because it seems fake to me, I'm not one of those "These are my written feelings please swallow whole the world is dark and I gargle gravel to get through it" kinda people.
At least I'm not one of those sob-stories doing things that would make any judge a temp restraining on you so fast your cock would harden.I love hearing those stories from chicks, because it makes me feel so much better about simply letting the piss hit my shoes, and walking away until it dries. My feet aren't soaked anymore, but sometimes this Mike Mockery feeling of misery and woe is too much for little red-kid won-ton soup loving self.
Hahaha! Where's Wilson when you need him.
Coockoo Coockoo Cuchoo what's me and Nicholson to do? I hear Galifinakis tried it too. Backer acted. Spell that right? Fuck that shit, thy shoot you all day. And feed it to you until your drooling more than one of those Facialabuse.com girls. (Late college night with Texas assholes, don't ask).
I suppose if I analyzed less, and tried more, I'd be balling, but when you get such a shit-fuck image of yourself hammered into the submission of your con-and sub-scious, you can't really blame yourself can you? Well, you can shadowbox it out. Or try at least.
I have no clue where I'm driving, and this road sucks too. I want the quite one with only trees, trees that let the moon and sun shine break though in rays.
Maybe I'll go look.