Its a sickly self-indulgent type of emotional-masturbation, somewhere between and around and up and down self-pity and self-loathing, the dashes between each over-played phrase strokes gently towards some tragic emo-gasm of drunken spastic blackouts and self-centered entropy. Tiny violins. Extra-sharp cheddar with my merlot. I’m too drunk usually to be sad though, mostly I worry åbout who wants me and who doesn’t, do I have enough cigarettes, will I ever get all this shit done. Nydia used to say “you don’t need a girlfriend, you need a mother.” I used to tell Brandy she was my anchor in an ocean of demons…now without my anchors I drift. Cut myself loose so I can wait for someone to rescue me. Of course when somebody comes along I’ll fold my arms and say “no, I’m fine” its great. Got å girl, sick of fighting, got no girl can’t get a ride. Got no money, can’t get drunk, got money drinkin too much. The casual flirts, the kisses that go nowhere, waking hazy on friends couches or pissing on my fences. This is going nowhere. My life might be going somewhere I don’t know where but when its there will I be aware enough to care?


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