Sad, sad, sad that I busted both my knees.
I don't want to turn 25 next week. This is not something I want to do.
I want to run out of the fucking door screaming "No, sir, come next year or the year after that! Not this year." I should be 22 or 23 again. If I act like this now just wait and see me at 30. Roy Cohen where are you now?
I made some mistakes in the last year. Truth be told I made many, many mistakes. I would take them all back but I can't, no sir. What were they you ask? Well, if you should know, you already do. I didn't exactly keep them quiet. Why didn't I start writing in this thing sooner? Why didn't I call? Why didn't I eat all the food on the plate? Why did I get so angry? Why couldn't I see them together without turning mean? Why couldn't I read the goddamn assignment? Write better? Work harder? Why does it feel like I'm running low on time?
I bet it has something to do with this cough. I picked it up earlier in the week and can't seem to shake it. My lungs feel heavy, heavier than my steps or heart and that's saying quite a bit when it comes to me. The things that come out of my mouth and I don't mean words, sweetheart. It's the shit floating in the air of the apartment. From the ceiling falling in, not from my moods. That's silly or impossible or both. Just like living, sweetheart. But really worthwhile. Oh, yes.
The sun is out today and I hide inside with kleenex and Gatorade and wait for the Advil Cold and Sinus to kick in. It will and I'll go outside and say, "Fuck, what a lovely day." That will heal me. I should turn to Jesus. Or the Republican Party. That really wasn't fair to Jesus. The Republicans would have crucified the poor sodomite.
Who the hell would speak glowingly of my confidence?
I want to run out of the fucking door screaming "No, sir, come next year or the year after that! Not this year." I should be 22 or 23 again. If I act like this now just wait and see me at 30. Roy Cohen where are you now?
I made some mistakes in the last year. Truth be told I made many, many mistakes. I would take them all back but I can't, no sir. What were they you ask? Well, if you should know, you already do. I didn't exactly keep them quiet. Why didn't I start writing in this thing sooner? Why didn't I call? Why didn't I eat all the food on the plate? Why did I get so angry? Why couldn't I see them together without turning mean? Why couldn't I read the goddamn assignment? Write better? Work harder? Why does it feel like I'm running low on time?
I bet it has something to do with this cough. I picked it up earlier in the week and can't seem to shake it. My lungs feel heavy, heavier than my steps or heart and that's saying quite a bit when it comes to me. The things that come out of my mouth and I don't mean words, sweetheart. It's the shit floating in the air of the apartment. From the ceiling falling in, not from my moods. That's silly or impossible or both. Just like living, sweetheart. But really worthwhile. Oh, yes.
The sun is out today and I hide inside with kleenex and Gatorade and wait for the Advil Cold and Sinus to kick in. It will and I'll go outside and say, "Fuck, what a lovely day." That will heal me. I should turn to Jesus. Or the Republican Party. That really wasn't fair to Jesus. The Republicans would have crucified the poor sodomite.
Who the hell would speak glowingly of my confidence?