Wasted Paper
I got my friend a life-sized cutout of a model holding a beer bottle. I figured that since he moved to Tacoma, he would be very lonely. He tells me that he does nothing at home because no one lives near him. This way, he won't be as lonely maybe.
But the fucking thing knocked over a glass jar in my room, spilling dried beans, plastic flowers, and shards of glass all over my carpet. I was late for work and I spent most of the night partying and playing video games with old friends and I just left it for when I came back. I told my brother, comatose yet ignorantly responsive because of the same party, not to let the dog in my room because of the glass.
Twelve hours later I get back with my parents from work and my door is open and I feel disappointed in the subconscious memory of my brother. I procrastinate and then finally get around to cleaning up the glass and stuff on my floor.
I scooped up the assorted beans that were in the jar and put them into the styrofoam box that held my dinner. I put in the plastic flowers that seemed to wilt and drop petals when I brushed them off. They were dying, I tell you. I never watered them. I put in the shards of glass and noticed the tiny gleam of glass crumbs in the carpet. Those fuckers. So I brought up the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed them.
I remember when I was younger (and it seems that I only consider my life in retrospect nowadays, as if I'm living at the final end of my life with nothing to look forward to, my greatnesses past me) when I rode my bike through the neighborhood, visiting my friends, going to the grocery store to buy Jones soda. I remember the broken glass bottles in the gutters, and I thought they looked like broken dreams, although I'm not the kind to endure cheap symbolism anymore. I just remember how the corners were white in the light. But I don't do that anymore.
I feel emotion. Some days, recently, I felt frustrated at life and at girls and at money and at the impossibility of things, the impossibility of accomplishing anything by oneself worth mention. I wish I could just be my own person. I wish I didn't need to tie everything to my name and I could just live off cash and po boxes and no-commitment contracts.
Other days, I feel saddened by life. The great enduring of humans through life and the inevitability of the continuation of time and how the only escape I ever had to consider for myself was to sleep, to stop trying and allow the universe to overtake me in this fucking pointless race for God knows what.
And I'm not fucking original. All these things that people feel, other people feel too. But everyone else seems caught up in it. People disgust me. People assume that if there is a word for it, then you don't have to think about it anymore. I just don't think people have the same response to things that I do.
And god fucking dammit I keep daydreaming about girls in my sleep deprived state. About eyes and shyness and my hand on her waist and a nose that accepts my nose next to it as I kiss her. I need to get fucking laid or something.
And one day, I'll write that screenplay about the mime and one day, I'll write the play about asking someone to marry me. I can see the post-it notes on the wall and the horrible scrawl in my notepad and all the wasted paper. I can see myself never getting things done, never getting anything published, and being a failure forever. I mean, that's pretty depressing.
And god dammit, human emotion is a bitch. Everyone seems to be ruled by it like the uneducated plebeian or tries to ignore it like they're fucking Nietzsche or something. You just have to accept that it is, because you're going to feel it and then you're going to want to do something, even if that something is to sleep and give up and long for a girl who's perfect in most of the important ways. Goddamit, I feel fucked up and all I am is just beat down by my emotions and not high or drunk or anything else that other people need to be. All I need is some tired rhythm to make me hate myself and a bit of ginger ale to be my friend.
I had something to say. I had something really important to say. I don't know why I can't go to sleep. It was something important. Direct brilliance, insanity compelled to useful function by the rigid meters of the human soul, or something like that. I don't remember what words were on the post-it note that I threw away. Why do I prefer to be certain things? Why am I what I am? How do I let someone else know? Just God fucking damn. Maybe when I'm not so tired. Fuckshit.
But the fucking thing knocked over a glass jar in my room, spilling dried beans, plastic flowers, and shards of glass all over my carpet. I was late for work and I spent most of the night partying and playing video games with old friends and I just left it for when I came back. I told my brother, comatose yet ignorantly responsive because of the same party, not to let the dog in my room because of the glass.
Twelve hours later I get back with my parents from work and my door is open and I feel disappointed in the subconscious memory of my brother. I procrastinate and then finally get around to cleaning up the glass and stuff on my floor.
I scooped up the assorted beans that were in the jar and put them into the styrofoam box that held my dinner. I put in the plastic flowers that seemed to wilt and drop petals when I brushed them off. They were dying, I tell you. I never watered them. I put in the shards of glass and noticed the tiny gleam of glass crumbs in the carpet. Those fuckers. So I brought up the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed them.
I remember when I was younger (and it seems that I only consider my life in retrospect nowadays, as if I'm living at the final end of my life with nothing to look forward to, my greatnesses past me) when I rode my bike through the neighborhood, visiting my friends, going to the grocery store to buy Jones soda. I remember the broken glass bottles in the gutters, and I thought they looked like broken dreams, although I'm not the kind to endure cheap symbolism anymore. I just remember how the corners were white in the light. But I don't do that anymore.
I feel emotion. Some days, recently, I felt frustrated at life and at girls and at money and at the impossibility of things, the impossibility of accomplishing anything by oneself worth mention. I wish I could just be my own person. I wish I didn't need to tie everything to my name and I could just live off cash and po boxes and no-commitment contracts.
Other days, I feel saddened by life. The great enduring of humans through life and the inevitability of the continuation of time and how the only escape I ever had to consider for myself was to sleep, to stop trying and allow the universe to overtake me in this fucking pointless race for God knows what.
And I'm not fucking original. All these things that people feel, other people feel too. But everyone else seems caught up in it. People disgust me. People assume that if there is a word for it, then you don't have to think about it anymore. I just don't think people have the same response to things that I do.
And god fucking dammit I keep daydreaming about girls in my sleep deprived state. About eyes and shyness and my hand on her waist and a nose that accepts my nose next to it as I kiss her. I need to get fucking laid or something.
And one day, I'll write that screenplay about the mime and one day, I'll write the play about asking someone to marry me. I can see the post-it notes on the wall and the horrible scrawl in my notepad and all the wasted paper. I can see myself never getting things done, never getting anything published, and being a failure forever. I mean, that's pretty depressing.
And god dammit, human emotion is a bitch. Everyone seems to be ruled by it like the uneducated plebeian or tries to ignore it like they're fucking Nietzsche or something. You just have to accept that it is, because you're going to feel it and then you're going to want to do something, even if that something is to sleep and give up and long for a girl who's perfect in most of the important ways. Goddamit, I feel fucked up and all I am is just beat down by my emotions and not high or drunk or anything else that other people need to be. All I need is some tired rhythm to make me hate myself and a bit of ginger ale to be my friend.
I had something to say. I had something really important to say. I don't know why I can't go to sleep. It was something important. Direct brilliance, insanity compelled to useful function by the rigid meters of the human soul, or something like that. I don't remember what words were on the post-it note that I threw away. Why do I prefer to be certain things? Why am I what I am? How do I let someone else know? Just God fucking damn. Maybe when I'm not so tired. Fuckshit.