I think I caught some damn fool's flu.
And I know just the damn fool.
Like it matters. That's not why I've brought you all here today. And its not to kill superman.
... this time.
No, I've gathered you all here because every fucking thing hurts, and I really don't care.
See, I was thinking about this while I was looking at the faces in my parent's 1/2 bath door. The wood grain looks like a thousand tormented mortals trapped, pressed, and sliced sandwich meat thin in some sort of frozen window into hell, I thought
gee
there's a poem right there.
But really, I can't write anything worth a shit til I get paid, get fucked, and get coffee.
I know. I'm being quite a prat about the whole issue, but really, I'm just not in any mood for spiritualism, feigning sophistication and all the other bullocks that falls out of my head when I'm actually inspired.
It can't be helped. I have a fulltime job, and a notime lover. Madness really. And what about my innevitable trek into grad-school? What then?
Will there be blowjobs and wild parties there?
Trips to europe and saucey whores in amsterdam?
No.
Dear gods no there will be no such thing.
I haven't the money or the time.
So what does it all mean?
Am I retiring?
Hanging up my quills?
Or just protesting, like a limb flinging three your old?
Really I don't know, but I've come to discover something about my oft misunderstood pissiness.
I like it. It is me. And every once in a while, everyone needs to fuck off, and let me be mad.
I don't really feel like fixing it this time.
No deep meditation, no introspection or "fixing the problem"
the problem is I need a good shag, and some fucking money. I work hard, I'm a good lay, and a self righteous prick.
But hey- haven't you ever had a bit of chocolate after a nine hour day? Ever stopped at the bar and had a cocktail because "god damn it, you deserved it"?
Then don't start getting off telling me how to get off and get over this blah.
It's not just hormones, its a fucking sense of entitlement. I've given up huge pieces of me. And for what? Bragging rights? Balderdash. I just want some fucking reciprocal passion in my life, some equality, respect.
I want my life to have a more complex flavor.
Banana ice cream is great and all, but wouldn't it be great to sprinkle on some pecans, drizzle a smidge of chocolate- and by god have it hand cranked by someone else for once?
That's a pun y'know.
Yes, I'm terribly lonely,
yes I'm terribly horny,
and yes I'm... just tired.
It's alright to be in tune with your humanity once in a while. Some of our greatest artists were dreadfully aware of it, and ... went bonkers, but not before publishing some extremely intriguing/vulgar things. I don't see the problem.
This doesn't mean I'll stop, or even drag my feet.
We all want to be adequately rewarded for our work.
But the mark of avarice would be to stop, learn nothing, trash everything, and get a business degree.
I'm not even really asking for that much.
All things need love.
All men need full stomachs.
The book series, millions of dollars, and my name carved in history are all just a wonderful aftertone.
I don't even have the necessities.
Just my pride, my passion, and my ever deteriorating mind, body, and spirit.
I'm not meant to age on a shelf.
I should be enjoyed everyday.
To the last drops,
to the bitter pulpy dregs.
