It has been going on like a perpetual hangover. The last time I drank my liver decided to take a vacation from its job and divided the work amongst the rest of my body. My stomach swashed around the unprocessed ethyl like an oak barrel. To say that it felt like my organs were being distilled was an understatement.
But let's step back for a bit and realize the motives of complete negligence to my body. As I am tossed more into the unknown I have found a person can always have two friends: a cigarette to burn and a beer to wash it down. They can prove to be great time wasters. Don't have a T.V.? Why not try a cigarette. Thirsty? Please. Throw that glass of water over your shoulder and opt for something that will numb your throat on the way down. Am I a bohemian yet?
Something occurs when you mix your thoughts with substances and plop down in a social circle. Do the temporary prolific words coming out of your mouth really sink so far in that you go, "Wow, that was too much, excuse me will I head to the toilet to release some of my brilliance".
Let's think about that for a second.
With heavy eyes I am phased with the issue of offering my extremely dedicated soul to work. Man, I am a human being willing to put forth my energy to better someone else's dream. Why not take me? How many other places do I have to slave at before I'm considered a prime cut of meat. I'm essentially given a car with a gallon of gas and a bank account with a negative balance. The quickest answer is, obviously, to drive off the nearest bridge.
Alas, I can bitch and moan to my house plants because they actually enjoy the humidity from my hysterical rants being exhaled onto their leaves. As I like to maintain an ecosystem, I listen to what they have to say by breathing that oh-so-sweet oxygen and tarnish it with my blood.
When will I provide some dignified content to this society? Well, I think it will happen when it decides to listen. So until then I'll drink smoothies spiked with chia seeds to make myself feel better for going through an extra rinse cycle of booze.
1.14.2015
1.10.2015
A Night in the City
With an eerie predicament I've arrived in the same situation again. Beer in hand as I write this, I ponder what it is like in the freezing cold outside. Granted I'm here, driving home some cover letters like the supernova I want myself to be. Why not spice up things with whiskey. The bottle of whiskey that has been festering on-top of my fridge waiting for: "I'm going to enjoy myself while flipping off the world with my centre finger." Ba-ha, as I stir some into my glass.
But I feel this type of stuff is therapeutic. It puts what you want to do in a perspective that otherwise gets cloudy when you live in such a polluted city. I am not saying NYC is dirty, but the amount of distractions can fill your mind until it overflows. You know? That occasional feeling you get at the bar when you want the tap to fill a bottomless chalice so you can consume yourself into a wormhole of feelings and be spit out at a different time.
I come to this realization every now and then. It is mostly when I look out the window and the view isn't my neighbors garage. I live in such a potential booming environment, why haven't I succeeded in life yet? I've made it! I've made it into debt?
It's easy to think things will fall into place when you change your environment. Sometimes you get lucky, but you really got to kick your own ass to move anywhere. So here I am, coaxing my fingers to do what I do: to write some unwitting nonsense about my perspective of growing up at this very moment. I'm sure that all the potential of this advice will be naught once I wake up tomorrow. "Ya Dumb-ass", but said in the way from Red from That 70's Show.
Ehh
You know, I was working coat check at this music joint not too long ago, it was a private corporate party. It was as close as being at an office without actually working at said office. Needless to say, I was entertained by the cast of characters participating. Some young, around my age, others were more established in their years. One woman had a particular fascinating background:
She asked me what I was reading.
"Murakami, Dance Dance Dance"
She pulled out a book looking for her coat ticket, and I asked her about it, naturally.
"Oh, this is just a book from my dead husband, it's probably not as good as yours"
Say what? She went into detail and asked me what I do. I say I write but haven't written for a long time. She told me, write, blog, that's how you will get somewhere. "Remember the woman with the dead husband who told you to write", Then she left bidding me good luck.
Right. Well this is for you random-lady-with-dead-husband-I-met-at-coatcheck. As I sip my beer listening to New Order; I feel like I'm writing this post with a synthesizer.
But I feel this type of stuff is therapeutic. It puts what you want to do in a perspective that otherwise gets cloudy when you live in such a polluted city. I am not saying NYC is dirty, but the amount of distractions can fill your mind until it overflows. You know? That occasional feeling you get at the bar when you want the tap to fill a bottomless chalice so you can consume yourself into a wormhole of feelings and be spit out at a different time.
I come to this realization every now and then. It is mostly when I look out the window and the view isn't my neighbors garage. I live in such a potential booming environment, why haven't I succeeded in life yet? I've made it! I've made it into debt?
It's easy to think things will fall into place when you change your environment. Sometimes you get lucky, but you really got to kick your own ass to move anywhere. So here I am, coaxing my fingers to do what I do: to write some unwitting nonsense about my perspective of growing up at this very moment. I'm sure that all the potential of this advice will be naught once I wake up tomorrow. "Ya Dumb-ass", but said in the way from Red from That 70's Show.
Ehh
You know, I was working coat check at this music joint not too long ago, it was a private corporate party. It was as close as being at an office without actually working at said office. Needless to say, I was entertained by the cast of characters participating. Some young, around my age, others were more established in their years. One woman had a particular fascinating background:
She asked me what I was reading.
"Murakami, Dance Dance Dance"
She pulled out a book looking for her coat ticket, and I asked her about it, naturally.
"Oh, this is just a book from my dead husband, it's probably not as good as yours"
Say what? She went into detail and asked me what I do. I say I write but haven't written for a long time. She told me, write, blog, that's how you will get somewhere. "Remember the woman with the dead husband who told you to write", Then she left bidding me good luck.
Right. Well this is for you random-lady-with-dead-husband-I-met-at-coatcheck. As I sip my beer listening to New Order; I feel like I'm writing this post with a synthesizer.
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