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Fuck.
So, now is the time to brood and self-loath. Yes, I know I said it's bored and old but that doesn't mean I'm above it.
That came out all fucking wrong.
But it always seems to with me.
Rarely have I verbally expressed myself in an eloquent and endearing fashion. It usually just came out,"Fuck you" or "I really like you.
How sad.
I think that now is the time for self-destruction.
* * *
I refuse to comment on that horrid day when the wrath of God hung over our heads and the event(s) thereof except to say that they were, at least, brief. Imperialist was right though, there should have been alcohol.
"Oh yes, I'm definitely hammered. No doubt."
And so after they left the store, I would imagine that the girl went and fucked the big ogre like I would expect any other slut to. God, I hate women.
"Magic Dollar"
So, here I am sitting alone, except for the kids making out in the parking lot. I'm hoping that someone comes in, shoots me, and takes all the money out of the register. The phone rings and rings while I sit here. I guess, considering that it's a business, that they expect an answer; A polite statement of name and affiliation.
I'm not interested in such things.
I suppose that if I was indeed robbed, I would pull the little magic dollar that would summon the authorities to come gaze in bewilderment at my bleeding body - listening to that sigh of utter resignation that I would give the entire situation.
And now it's time to play that game I like to call: "Are they stupid or drunk?".
Even when I'm high, I sometimes still miss her.
I'm sure noone cares.
Everything Else In Life Gets The Volume Turned Down On It
She didn't care then.. So why sh(W)(C)ould she Now
"Another Interpretation"
I still do want to be shot. Nothing serious, mind you. Maybe it's a strange sort of self-hatred. I think it's more based on the glory that my society has put on the pride and manliness of living through being pierced by a hand cannon.
Anyway, I would probably even thank the person that shot me. Shake their hand. Have dinner with them. Break bread and the such.
Ah, you're right. If I were a real man I'd do it myself.
You know how seasons have a smell. Well, to me it smells like fall tonight. That brisk, Kentucky October fall that brings floods of memories of dieing trees and pumpkins. Blood. The stuff dreams are made of.
And, for those keeping score: That shit has just officially kicked in.
Ok, I think I've proven my substandard savage self for long enough. I think it's time for some class...
Maybe.
Help me.
