some bullshit

How am I supposed to choose what to do with the time I have on this planet? Who to spend it with? I forget sometimes that it is ultimately up to me to make those choices. I get caught up in fear of reprisal, but I don't have any enemies. And that's precisely the problem. Tread lightly enough and you won't even be noticed. The real problem is that I'm fucking self-centered. The humble truth is that I don't have that much power over other people. I censor myself because I don't want to offend or upset. The key to happiness is not having everybody like you. That's just the key to being boring and afraid and deprived. Careful, careful, you might accidentally live for a second.

I want somebody to teach my how to be an asshole. Treat the people you love with dignity and respect, and fuck the rest? Maybe. I want every moment of my life to be white-hot intense with meaning. I want to burn with the holy fire. Every instant sharp and clear and direct. Would that get old? I think perhaps we can get used to almost anything.

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The last time I saw you, you were on the floor with my dog. Now you're both dead. Relish the time we had together, you said, and then I went and fucked it all up. I'm over this tip-toeing around the flowers bullshit. I'm pretty sure that people aren't flowers, and we're not interchangeable like light bulbs either. If we were we could just throw the dim ones out, couldn't we?

You've got that fresh factory smell on you and your hair is always perfect. Hot off the assembly line. God damned robots are stealing all our jobs. Always stuffing your face with antifreeze. Always cowing to the perfection of iPods. Smoking poles in the stacks. Smokestacks beneath pillows. Clean out your waxy intestines with blasted charcoal. Blasted. I say. Fuck.

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