I won a board game tonight. I called out so many correct answers. more than the rest. I ate a chicken stir fry tonight. I called out so many dead birds. Called them out for all their negative traits. Too much soy sauce, not enough salt! The rice is too dry. But wait, I'll just add water and make them less so. Yeasayer isn't half bad. I listen to too many shitty vampire weekend remixes at work. The girls don't come calling like they used to. And the ones I want don't. Or at least not as often as I'd like. A girl leaves late at night to get fucked by a dick. Not the body part. Well yes, the body part, but also the man himself. The dog shows unlimited love. The dog shows unlimited love for Iams and his water dish. Merv loves to hide under things. I need to move out. But I want to stay. I want to stay because I think it will be easier than moving. I want to stay because I want to believe people are good and if you do good things then good things will happen to you. But people will only take things from you. The five dollars you left in change or the half loaf of 12 grain you placed on the counter. Two sodas in the fridge? A 2 liter is no such replacement. They'll take a year of your life and leave you nothing but downtrodden and stuck in a lease. Walgreens sleep aid just doesn't do the trick these days. Add four whiskey on the rocks. The effects tend to wear off around 4Am. Thats when you hear the roommates get home. Or the slut that lives upstairs. Thats when you think the clearest. When the clock seems to move slower. When the clock slowly crawls forward. I still got 3 hours left. Thats when Merv starts barking. When I mistake his barks for something meaningful. He only hears of the slut who lives above climbing the stairs. But that is okay. It's quite alright to start a sentence off with but. That's the best part about creative writing. You get to do whatever the fuck you want. Make shit up. And start sentences with and. And then use too many commas. Like my writer friend with the curly hair. That kid has uses so many goddamn commas. His sentences run like fucked up tights. But it is okay. It's creative writing you bastard. It's sleazy shit. It's skeazy shit. It's drunk at 2 in the AM shit and it's okay if your mother reads your blog. You gave her the URL. Mom, don't worry. I'm just going on and on and on and on. 'But son, this is on the internet, anyone can see it!' But I'm a writer mom, people will understand. A writer? You can't just classify yourself as a writer Adam." Thanks public. This is rambling but I actually get paid to write now. What does that make you, special? No! It just makes me a sham that is really good at covering up every shit he decides to take. Please understand, it is not the short hair that gets me. It is the idea that you went back to him. The fag with the puffy cheeks and slouch neck tshirt. gasp! A slur has slipped. Every tongue deserves the cover of passion. The heat of the moment. I will and I can say whatever I want. Of course, be aware I do not mean it. Not at all. I love my men who love men. Like Kanye though, no homo. I love this depression I have seemed to become so fond of.
