It's funny that throughout the years I seem to run out of things to write. The keys on my keyboard suddenly become blank and meaningless. Everything is the same, everything is old. It feels like nothing ever changes. I still grind it out everyday, wishing I'd win the freakin' powerball.
How many times can I tell you about the same old daily grind in a way that you'd like to read it? How many tales of male suffering would you like to hear about until your brain becomes numb? How much money do I have to spend or how drunk must I be before you're deafened by it to the point of grey matter dripping out of your ears? How much marital rhetoric needs to be spewn across these pages until we all lose hope? How unhappy can one spoiled, evil, hungover manic depressive be? How long do you guys want to hear about all this shit?
It feels like nothing ever changes. I've returned to wearing pure black everyday, even in the scorching sun. It feels like nothing ever changes. I still dig needles in my flesh just to get by.
Shut it down, R. Just turn it off and shut it down already.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment