old rants to Jase (from 1 yr ago)
Old rant number 1
San Jose is being over-run by bus boys, men that have towls in their back pocket, and why are they all confused and have their undershirts longer than their overshirts? The girls dress skanky and provocitivly to impress the man who could only bother to put on sweatpants and stick a towl in their pocket. How sad is that? These women spend hours doing their hair, and dressing in their tiniest shirts and skirts. They squeeze their feet into shoes that will make them bleed, all for men who could only bother to throw on a pair of sweatpants. The women bat their eyelashes provocativley, and smile and laugh at lame lines and jokes, all to find a connection with someone who is only looking for a piece of ass, not a meaningful relationship. I cry for them, I cringe for them, I am appathetic with these women, for on some level, I am one.
"Patron saint of broken toys" sits drinking his coffee. I sit with him, bitterly drinking mine. Duckt tape and supperglue fixes everything, except a broken heart. The soundtrack to my life doesn't fit,...the sad emo tears I cry do not with the chipper songs that fill the air. Everyone seems to be walking in pairs, its like Noahs arc. My laugh rings out,..but only because I am amused by the bitter comments that he spurts. $1.75 buys me warmth and momentary steaming happyiness in a mug.
Sorrow and bitterness sharing a table, both adorned in black, both have lost love, even tho one is married to it. My cell phone no longer rings with happieness, but instead is quieted by sorrow. This soul that joins me amuses me. His rantings warm my heart, perhaps it will all be ok? Probably not. My mug of joy is almost empty, but my toes and fingers are still numb. Darkeness fills the air, illuminated by the smoke of too many cigaretts. My converse are to thin, and my toes are numb. JESUS IS DEAD, GET OVER IT. Another random thought that gives me fleeting amusement. Self expression is obviouse, but pathetic. My friend and I laugh at it. Fleeting thoughts that ramble and spill out of or mouths. Verbal vomit, all of it.
Masterminds of distruction and bitterness. Church is a building that seperates people from god, and one another. Causes not love, but distain for those who do noth gather in that same building. We war over it, argue over it, throw bombs over it, my tears spill down my cheeks. I write this, but in truth, I can not cry, I want to, but I can not. I feel it welling up inside of me, but can not release the cork. My pack of "slow rout to suicide" is almost gone,..why must these sticks of cancer and momentary relief work a little faster? I kid, I want to live, but know I will die when my time is chosen, by some god, or speeding car. Tales are being told, of cops, friends, and pirates.
This conversation warms my soul, but not my frozen toes. Smokers are worse than heroin adicts. My friend, has decided that I should dress a little sluttier, simply so that I can attract some girls boyfriend, and then shun him. Ahh,..the amusement that that could cause. "Your a pretty girl, you could do it,..become a man eater,....entice those poor men, just so you can shun them, and be amused byt the situation" Hmmmm,..I think I am better off in my converse, jeans and a t-shirt, although it would amuse me, but only for a second. Its not worth it. He knows my despiration, and understands it. We loudly make fun of all the people that pass, for their clothes, or obviouse situations. Bitterness brings out catiness. And we both do this well. "Conservitive think tank",....another excert from our conversation. He growls at my broken camera sitting on the table between us, sadly, that won't fix my piece of joy. Broken things need to be fixed,..or destroyed compleatly.
I would love to meet you, but only at a Dennys, in some seedy part of town, that would be fitting for us. 3am, as we both sip on coffee, with a waitress that smokes 3 packs a day, and her dirty name tag reads "Joy".
I walk inside the coffee shop again, and switch from tea to coffee. The boy behind the counter smiles at me and makes small talk. Doesn't charge me and winks. I suppose he is cute, but I am too wrapped up in my bitterness to really care. He is cute, perhaps next time I smile and laugh. I return outside to my friend. Our conversation continues. We rant and rave, and talk about mindless crap. Amused by the pathetic world that unfolds and walks by us. Emo teenagers, the skanky women, the 3 some, with the guy that obviously wants his best friends girlfriend. You can see his mind working, the things he would do to her if only he could get her alone, and have the courage. He wants to bend her over, and she knnows it, you know this by the smirk on her face. The best friend seems compleatly obliviouse to what is mentally transpiring between them.
Our conversation turns to marriage, and the trials and tribulations that transpire because of it. My pack is almost empty, so it is almost time to go, and end my conversation with my friend, and this play by play that I have sent to you. You have been given a peek at a few hours in the life of Me. I bid you adoo good sir, and end this novel of thoughts. My cup and pack are empty, so I will return home,....back to the cat and dog, and electric heater, that I will snuggle by. Again, goodevening good Sir.
San Jose is being over-run by bus boys, men that have towls in their back pocket, and why are they all confused and have their undershirts longer than their overshirts? The girls dress skanky and provocitivly to impress the man who could only bother to put on sweatpants and stick a towl in their pocket. How sad is that? These women spend hours doing their hair, and dressing in their tiniest shirts and skirts. They squeeze their feet into shoes that will make them bleed, all for men who could only bother to throw on a pair of sweatpants. The women bat their eyelashes provocativley, and smile and laugh at lame lines and jokes, all to find a connection with someone who is only looking for a piece of ass, not a meaningful relationship. I cry for them, I cringe for them, I am appathetic with these women, for on some level, I am one.
"Patron saint of broken toys" sits drinking his coffee. I sit with him, bitterly drinking mine. Duckt tape and supperglue fixes everything, except a broken heart. The soundtrack to my life doesn't fit,...the sad emo tears I cry do not with the chipper songs that fill the air. Everyone seems to be walking in pairs, its like Noahs arc. My laugh rings out,..but only because I am amused by the bitter comments that he spurts. $1.75 buys me warmth and momentary steaming happyiness in a mug.
Sorrow and bitterness sharing a table, both adorned in black, both have lost love, even tho one is married to it. My cell phone no longer rings with happieness, but instead is quieted by sorrow. This soul that joins me amuses me. His rantings warm my heart, perhaps it will all be ok? Probably not. My mug of joy is almost empty, but my toes and fingers are still numb. Darkeness fills the air, illuminated by the smoke of too many cigaretts. My converse are to thin, and my toes are numb. JESUS IS DEAD, GET OVER IT. Another random thought that gives me fleeting amusement. Self expression is obviouse, but pathetic. My friend and I laugh at it. Fleeting thoughts that ramble and spill out of or mouths. Verbal vomit, all of it.
Masterminds of distruction and bitterness. Church is a building that seperates people from god, and one another. Causes not love, but distain for those who do noth gather in that same building. We war over it, argue over it, throw bombs over it, my tears spill down my cheeks. I write this, but in truth, I can not cry, I want to, but I can not. I feel it welling up inside of me, but can not release the cork. My pack of "slow rout to suicide" is almost gone,..why must these sticks of cancer and momentary relief work a little faster? I kid, I want to live, but know I will die when my time is chosen, by some god, or speeding car. Tales are being told, of cops, friends, and pirates.
This conversation warms my soul, but not my frozen toes. Smokers are worse than heroin adicts. My friend, has decided that I should dress a little sluttier, simply so that I can attract some girls boyfriend, and then shun him. Ahh,..the amusement that that could cause. "Your a pretty girl, you could do it,..become a man eater,....entice those poor men, just so you can shun them, and be amused byt the situation" Hmmmm,..I think I am better off in my converse, jeans and a t-shirt, although it would amuse me, but only for a second. Its not worth it. He knows my despiration, and understands it. We loudly make fun of all the people that pass, for their clothes, or obviouse situations. Bitterness brings out catiness. And we both do this well. "Conservitive think tank",....another excert from our conversation. He growls at my broken camera sitting on the table between us, sadly, that won't fix my piece of joy. Broken things need to be fixed,..or destroyed compleatly.
I would love to meet you, but only at a Dennys, in some seedy part of town, that would be fitting for us. 3am, as we both sip on coffee, with a waitress that smokes 3 packs a day, and her dirty name tag reads "Joy".
I walk inside the coffee shop again, and switch from tea to coffee. The boy behind the counter smiles at me and makes small talk. Doesn't charge me and winks. I suppose he is cute, but I am too wrapped up in my bitterness to really care. He is cute, perhaps next time I smile and laugh. I return outside to my friend. Our conversation continues. We rant and rave, and talk about mindless crap. Amused by the pathetic world that unfolds and walks by us. Emo teenagers, the skanky women, the 3 some, with the guy that obviously wants his best friends girlfriend. You can see his mind working, the things he would do to her if only he could get her alone, and have the courage. He wants to bend her over, and she knnows it, you know this by the smirk on her face. The best friend seems compleatly obliviouse to what is mentally transpiring between them.
Our conversation turns to marriage, and the trials and tribulations that transpire because of it. My pack is almost empty, so it is almost time to go, and end my conversation with my friend, and this play by play that I have sent to you. You have been given a peek at a few hours in the life of Me. I bid you adoo good sir, and end this novel of thoughts. My cup and pack are empty, so I will return home,....back to the cat and dog, and electric heater, that I will snuggle by. Again, goodevening good Sir.