Loveably hungover.
I seem to have effectively fried and reduced what’s left of my brain cells to a 21st century hashtag. The more I pile up the years, the more I seem indisposed. Per self-imposed rules, I do my best to abandon intoxicants and stimulants only to come back crawling and wanting to be tampered. Sometimes the balance is so difficult, it’s more straightforward choosing the left side of things. Certainly not because of free candy, but just because it seems to be the natural state of ethics. The apparent lack of it. We’d all love to be more untamed than the usual.
I’d love to be more fearless, like animals. They don’t talk. That’s simply heroic. I’d have to get one of my cats to drink my poison of choice. We’d talk about narcissism and entitlement. Did I say candy? The dark side offers vanilla.
The emotional lowlands seem desperate for my sad eyes. Or is it my self-loathing?
I always try to stay away from all the materials and creations my manipulative ways have set, but it turns out, they’re all I know. Defining yourself is a really strange thing to do. I seem to have forgotten the simplest, enjoyable things which is a shame. Like eating ice cream or having angry sex. The choices become narrower as you advance in years and dosage. It’s either we complicate things more, or should we just simply jump off a roof. Into a pool. Why? Because you’re a golden god.
(How can they make that movie without all the dope?)
I get mad on behalf of people when judgment and tastefulness is bad. It’s all around. It’s also in me. I don’t mind when it’s just tragically bad, it’s just that it’s plainly OK, which seems to be the benchmark for quality these days. That’s why I have fights with myself. It’s for good, competent measure. Where is the level of sympathy required for the roaring drunk within me?
You deserve better than this. Where are the coherent works of the undaunted yore? I try not to lord it over compositions. It’s easier since I’m a cheap cop-out. I’m not going to keep you from harm, because that job’s already been taken. We’re in a world of shit, and some of it is my fault. I have mathematically eliminated myself from more responsibilities and I can’t save you from this drab, uneventful read.
These ramblings are dedicated to nontextual materials. I’m operating on a heart-rending pit. Let’s focus on intention and not mechanics. The grooves in our lives are deeper and they seem to lack the luster of a child’s interest when offered sweets. It’s a wordless idea, and I know we’ll always be rioting for its expression.
It’s all good. Again, we’ve failed better.
Getting high. It’s so empty. But we all need space.
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