Sunday, January 1, 2006

Thoughts of you; I ain’t dead yet.

  • What did you do today?

  • I waited for the bus.

  • What?

  • I waited for the bus.

  • All day?

  • Yeah.

  • The bus didn’t come?

  • It came.  And went.

  • But you didn’t get on.

  • Didn’t feel like it.

  • So you spent all day at the bus stop waiting for the bus?

  • Yeah.

  • Oh.  Alright. … How’d that go for you?

  • Eh.  Could’ve been worse.

“The wall was too high, as you can see.  No matter how he tried he could not break free.  And the worms ate into his brain.”
- Pink Floyd, “Hey You”

But it never goes anywhere.  And it never accomplishes anything.  So what’s the point?

You’re right, you can’t trust anyone.  And this was the time where we were supposed to make each other look good.  Life is a motherfucker.

At the beginning I would have cared.  I liked the bastards, they all seemed nice.  At the end, I hoped they all died.  Everyone except for me.  And that was a pretty bare exception.  But they didn’t die.  And they didn’t give up.  And they didn’t lose.  They just kept on going.  They should have died.  They should have lost.  They should have given up.  Life is bullshit.  And they are caught up in the worst of it.

Of course I am lying.  Of course I have to.  

She never though she could muster up anything

1. Never trust me.  2. Always trust me to make it out.

I want to say that it wasn’t their fault.  But it was.  That much is obvious.  The thing is, though, they needed to do it more than I needed to stop them.  And I just didn’t care enough to try.  

It wasn’t that he contemplated suicide.  He never felt inclined to take decisive action of any kind.  He wasn’t about to say the last goodbye.  Plus, he was always the riding off into the sunset sort of kid.  Suicide just didn’t fit his idiom.  Problem was he had no sunset to ride off into.  He didn’t have anywhere to go.  And the stagnation was killing him.  Slowly.  She didn’t help at all.  Not that she realized it.  He never told her anything.  Especially not how he felt.  He always subscribed to the belief that if you like a girl you ignore her.  They all ignored him back.  He blamed the Universe.  Whatever it was, though, he wanted out.  He needed to get out; break free from himself.  And suicide was out.  So what was left?

“I’ve got everything I need: Bukowski, a bottle, and a girl that doesn’t love me.”
- Isaac Aronson

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