(no subject)
Keeping up with the predictability of Suburbia is like jerking off to the sight of your own mother naked- it's quite vile but something very Freudian about the whole thing.
Honey pours out from the bottle slowly, stretching itself out, and dipping into a cup of scalding tea- the story of my life at this moment.
I'm doing the best I can, adjusting as best as I can, trying to settle in as best as I can, I've no friends, no love interest, I no longer write, I talk very little these days that I often am dumbfounded that I can say anything to the lady behind the counter who wants to know if it's for here or to go.
There is nothing wrong with my life. By all accounts, I've got a nice paying job, a swell car, self-paid health insurance, car insurance, credit card bills, a clean apartment, sneakers all lined up right, my shirts ironed and hung, my books in boxes, my subscription to the Washington Post is noticeable in the recycle bin, a nice fluffy couch, dishwasher, a refrigerator filled with enough vegetables to make a vegetarian blush with envy, a multi-cable plan, king size bed. All I'm missing is a house pet and some plant in the corner of my place. I'm the perfect American. Living the American dream. Everything is so sterile. I should be able to die clean.
Looking for another job, then I realize it's just another place to wait till you get old enough to collect pension. "Well, what are you passionate about, Doug?!" In a word, fucking.
Honey pours out from the bottle slowly, stretching itself out, and dipping into a cup of scalding tea- the story of my life at this moment.
I'm doing the best I can, adjusting as best as I can, trying to settle in as best as I can, I've no friends, no love interest, I no longer write, I talk very little these days that I often am dumbfounded that I can say anything to the lady behind the counter who wants to know if it's for here or to go.
There is nothing wrong with my life. By all accounts, I've got a nice paying job, a swell car, self-paid health insurance, car insurance, credit card bills, a clean apartment, sneakers all lined up right, my shirts ironed and hung, my books in boxes, my subscription to the Washington Post is noticeable in the recycle bin, a nice fluffy couch, dishwasher, a refrigerator filled with enough vegetables to make a vegetarian blush with envy, a multi-cable plan, king size bed. All I'm missing is a house pet and some plant in the corner of my place. I'm the perfect American. Living the American dream. Everything is so sterile. I should be able to die clean.
Looking for another job, then I realize it's just another place to wait till you get old enough to collect pension. "Well, what are you passionate about, Doug?!" In a word, fucking.