Pour me another, and ignore me my brother.
This internet hammock has swung me uncomfortable in many directions. When I meet people I shake hands with them as a small political statement and agreement of neutral or positive stance on their ideals or beliefs (and generally any concept of them as a non-fictional person in, of course, human form). I refuse to use some internet half-dating site. My stance on Myspace.Com is it’s still a popularity contest, for most, for those who fear they may have lost what they had in high school. Sidenote - the owner was also sued last year for embedding spyware onto its’ webages and raking in millions from us using our computers, as opposed to us viewing ads on its’ webpages. It is for this reason I shall use the internet not only to research and shop, but also to informally publish myself as a writer (not myself as seen in photography, or my conversations). Livejournal.com still remains my drug of choice - ask anybody, it does to the least harm. You also won’t catch me in public using it ;) .
You being invited to read this is one step closer to me becoming more comfortable with myself in true form of display. I suppose this is the only theater where we wear “backspace” brand make-up. At home, I try the mirror like that typical wasted guy who raises hell in the aisles of a stadium.
Wandering Tallahassee home today from the University of Miami vs. FSU game I caught myself. From falling. Stood up an unhappy soldier who was causing improper line formation. As functional and groomed as I may(or may not have) been these past few months, I have collectively built myself a fully-furnished house’s worth of memories. Dove in too deep in some places, swam in too shallow of water, hot and cold and all that other nondescript pseudo-babble. With my belt a little tighter now, I walk more swiftly and solitary (with the occasional partners in crime) than ever.
The change jingling in my pockets has become an anthem. The color of my cups has no longer been a preference and the concept of a hollowed-out cylinder with no top has become more and more handy in the use of my bedroom eyes. Dignity pours itself out of me about six or seven times an evening on lawns and sometimes improperly parked cars at my house. Fistfights are sloppily coordinated sign language for go fuck yourself. New discoveries along the road prove that policewomen would make bad dates because they would never show up to your house in time.
My station is always in and out of love songs. My car is always on the road in fifth gear, and you know what that means. Somebody’s always riding shotgun. Whether its a couple stories in a tank-top, or a cooler of beer - my arm is always angled around a headrest belonging to a seat I’m not sitting in. By the time I get to where I think I need to go, the beer is usually shaken up from a little bit of a bumpy ride - or my passenger has usually jumped to another car like an in-your-face-stunt-double in a cheesy 007 flick because I’ve accidentally pointed out all the broken gauges and they’ve realized just a few lights shy of a fifteen minute phone call to geico. I mean, I’m so used to driving I can pull it off without even looking at those fucking gauges, but I figure eventually I won’t be the only one laughing with my finger at those faults when two doors slam in unison and four feet scuffle to my front door with ten fingers twisted together.
So until then it’s me in the corner whistling some Steve Miller shit.
Keep on rockin’ me, baby.