Being a real person is so fucking hard. Worrying about banks, books, paychecks, car payments, television shows, mesothelioma, politics, the sunday morning cartoons, my front door lock, bus schedules, paper routes, recycling, carpet, what time it is, it’s all so fucking stupid. I wasn’t meant to do this. I was meant to get drunker than drunk and read books about dialectics. I was meant to turn the act of touching the sensitive skin of your neck into a religious experience. I was meant to yell at the sky and make the rain fall like I was shaking leaves from a tree.
If I went for the next month without knowing whether it was night or day, if I was broke or rich, if I was passing my classes or failing out, if I even had a family anymore, then I’d be the happiest man alive for one fucking month.
As it stands, I’m swallowed up by the incredible weight of consciousness and whether or not I’ve got some milk for my cereal.
I don’t.
Fuck.
Posted on Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Notes
