Cross-Referenced Bullshit
Tonight I remembered a number of things about Ramon and Maui, two seperate people that bought computer parts from me.
I wish I could be saleem to the world that I do know. I want to be the Norton to your half boxed life existence. However, I will never be these things. I am left impotent at a tribunal of girls that leave me mocking myself, more than themselves. "Could I have I understood more, could I have understood his needs more, not really, because he would have made you put the emphasis on yourself and not the flickering screen if he had loved you more." So here I stand at the crux of a world where I should drunkenly, sloshedly, stuble into the Indian party next door, and write references how I don't completely understand their culture. Hell, I don't understand the wasp-y culture although I feign to fully realize its existence... what a bunch of bullshit.
Rounders is on downstairs, and I wish I could have continued acting to the point that I could have been the next Ed Norton. I know I could have loved Selma Hayek, at least that much is true.
I told Ryan tonight that I loved Annie a lot. I told him that I wrote her ridiculous (spelled correctly) love letter from Australia to the eastern United states for a good part of a summer. And... as much as this ellispes implies, I really did care for her, and am now drawn to girls that are slightly introverted and self deprecating. But the man believed me, even I believed myself.
Insecure in my security as I am.
Hopefully I will find some solace in whisky tomorrow night in the middle of Mendocino country with my homies. We will skirt Colusa county and find snow mountain. I will find something, if not myself and my lost danes, at least a recollection of what I do have (I will slap myself for the last sentence) and follow a fire road around a world that is confusing, aimless, and at least fufilling to some degree.
I will run over some logs that say Helene still loves me and Annie forgives me and that my mother will be happy, and that hopefully, I could be Mr. Carver, Mr. Obrien, Mr.Bukowski, and be me. My machete is still sharp.
Peace be to Neils, who is a vegetable for the time being. Why does everyone have to keep dying on me?
I wish I could be saleem to the world that I do know. I want to be the Norton to your half boxed life existence. However, I will never be these things. I am left impotent at a tribunal of girls that leave me mocking myself, more than themselves. "Could I have I understood more, could I have understood his needs more, not really, because he would have made you put the emphasis on yourself and not the flickering screen if he had loved you more." So here I stand at the crux of a world where I should drunkenly, sloshedly, stuble into the Indian party next door, and write references how I don't completely understand their culture. Hell, I don't understand the wasp-y culture although I feign to fully realize its existence... what a bunch of bullshit.
Rounders is on downstairs, and I wish I could have continued acting to the point that I could have been the next Ed Norton. I know I could have loved Selma Hayek, at least that much is true.
I told Ryan tonight that I loved Annie a lot. I told him that I wrote her ridiculous (spelled correctly) love letter from Australia to the eastern United states for a good part of a summer. And... as much as this ellispes implies, I really did care for her, and am now drawn to girls that are slightly introverted and self deprecating. But the man believed me, even I believed myself.
Insecure in my security as I am.
Hopefully I will find some solace in whisky tomorrow night in the middle of Mendocino country with my homies. We will skirt Colusa county and find snow mountain. I will find something, if not myself and my lost danes, at least a recollection of what I do have (I will slap myself for the last sentence) and follow a fire road around a world that is confusing, aimless, and at least fufilling to some degree.
I will run over some logs that say Helene still loves me and Annie forgives me and that my mother will be happy, and that hopefully, I could be Mr. Carver, Mr. Obrien, Mr.Bukowski, and be me. My machete is still sharp.
Peace be to Neils, who is a vegetable for the time being. Why does everyone have to keep dying on me?