It's not writing, it's just typing
Beginning of a story here? Or just a bored adrenaline-fueled rambling?:
Fucking dirty-ass Connecticut River. Bodies float to the surface. I grew up in a big gray Victorian across the street from a nursing home. I can still remember it now, someone would die and you’d see their shit on the sidewalk. Couches and lamps and prints and shoes. They’d always leave shoes. Because you can’t sell, who the fuck wants a dead man’s shoes? People would come pick through the possessions of the newly dead- no I won’t say that- those who weren’t coming back. Not just the homeless would be there, not just dirty old men with mental disorders and the real punk kids just starting to develop psychopathologies borne of glorious existential idealism. I can remember now, wanting to be them. Having no restraints, nothing to live for but life itself. Beautiful fucking narcissism in beautiful fucking Meriden.
But what did I know then, and what do I now know? All I’ve seen is a place an hour away. Maybe I see cows instead of antique stores overflowing- I forgot to mention that the stuff on the sidewalks would be the rejected stuff. The nice stuff that the “estate” (I fucking hate the word, who around here has an "estate"?) would be sold to antique stores, probably for less than they thought it was worth. But that’s because the antique stores are overflowing already. That’s all that’s left, the antique stores. Like the dude says in ‘What’s the Matter with Kansas?’, we’re a nation of dying places with the possessions of the dying and dead the only thing left to sell.
But fuck it, y’know. Fuck it. I’m a success, a goddamn high school graduate attending this state’s finest public university. Traded whateverthefuck Meriden is for cows. Cows and…
I once dated a girl who worked at Target. Big hair, big breasts. Freckles and flannel. I am very direct. I will never lie to you, she said. I never believed her, I guess I should’ve. Because she never misled me, I only misled myself.
Fucking dirty-ass Connecticut River. Bodies float to the surface. I grew up in a big gray Victorian across the street from a nursing home. I can still remember it now, someone would die and you’d see their shit on the sidewalk. Couches and lamps and prints and shoes. They’d always leave shoes. Because you can’t sell, who the fuck wants a dead man’s shoes? People would come pick through the possessions of the newly dead- no I won’t say that- those who weren’t coming back. Not just the homeless would be there, not just dirty old men with mental disorders and the real punk kids just starting to develop psychopathologies borne of glorious existential idealism. I can remember now, wanting to be them. Having no restraints, nothing to live for but life itself. Beautiful fucking narcissism in beautiful fucking Meriden.
But what did I know then, and what do I now know? All I’ve seen is a place an hour away. Maybe I see cows instead of antique stores overflowing- I forgot to mention that the stuff on the sidewalks would be the rejected stuff. The nice stuff that the “estate” (I fucking hate the word, who around here has an "estate"?) would be sold to antique stores, probably for less than they thought it was worth. But that’s because the antique stores are overflowing already. That’s all that’s left, the antique stores. Like the dude says in ‘What’s the Matter with Kansas?’, we’re a nation of dying places with the possessions of the dying and dead the only thing left to sell.
But fuck it, y’know. Fuck it. I’m a success, a goddamn high school graduate attending this state’s finest public university. Traded whateverthefuck Meriden is for cows. Cows and…
I once dated a girl who worked at Target. Big hair, big breasts. Freckles and flannel. I am very direct. I will never lie to you, she said. I never believed her, I guess I should’ve. Because she never misled me, I only misled myself.