(no subject)
I haven't held an intelligent thought in the space between my ears in longer than I could guess.
My days are full of meaningless small talk, the woes of both a waitress and an intellectual deadbeat. I've been reading more lately, yet I find an almost uncomfortable resentment fills my head with each page-scan. My latest let down: Buckey Sinister's "Whiskey and Robots." (I use the word let down loosely more so with regard to me than mister Sinister.) I like it, as I knew I would, which brings me to my next disclosure...You see, I agreed to have drinks (wine specifically) with a man who I know has feelings for me. Not lustful feelings, though I'm sure he wouldn't deny me if I propositioned him, but feelings of kinship and hopefulness. He's hopeful one day I'll realize I'm wasting my time with my boyfriend, Rob, who is my complete and utter opposite. He's hopeful I'll finally decide to date him, the starving artist, the published writer, the red wine drinker and fixed gear bike enthusiast. I guess what I'm saying is I resent him in the same way that I resent that talented writers whose works I've been drowning myself in as of late.
He symbolizes all that I feel I've lost, and all that I've currently still got: this head unable to grasp those once accessible intelligent thoughts.
My days are full of meaningless small talk, the woes of both a waitress and an intellectual deadbeat. I've been reading more lately, yet I find an almost uncomfortable resentment fills my head with each page-scan. My latest let down: Buckey Sinister's "Whiskey and Robots." (I use the word let down loosely more so with regard to me than mister Sinister.) I like it, as I knew I would, which brings me to my next disclosure...You see, I agreed to have drinks (wine specifically) with a man who I know has feelings for me. Not lustful feelings, though I'm sure he wouldn't deny me if I propositioned him, but feelings of kinship and hopefulness. He's hopeful one day I'll realize I'm wasting my time with my boyfriend, Rob, who is my complete and utter opposite. He's hopeful I'll finally decide to date him, the starving artist, the published writer, the red wine drinker and fixed gear bike enthusiast. I guess what I'm saying is I resent him in the same way that I resent that talented writers whose works I've been drowning myself in as of late.
He symbolizes all that I feel I've lost, and all that I've currently still got: this head unable to grasp those once accessible intelligent thoughts.