"Begging for life with a tin cup..."
It's been some time since I made a journal entry worth anything. Usually it's just filled with superficial things that lack any real substance or purpose, save to let everyone know that I do, indeed, still exist and haven't succumb to the stresses of everyday life. So I'm sitting here, having smoked my last good cigarette the other day, feeling as though I've lost something more important than I realized.
I've squandered time on people not worth the ground upon which my shadow falls, hoping and believing that something that was never there could possibly be found. I've wasted energy on people who've proven immature, self-absorbed, and shallow for the sake of words that mean less than nothing now. I've thrown away thousands of valuable nights wondering about immaterial fantasies that had no hope of ever coming to term. And now I've sudden realized this fact after having spoken with a friend whom I've known for only but a short time.
I've given too much of my precious time to people to whom I shouldn't have given a second glance. I've been too nice, if you can believe it and even if you can't, to vile, treacherous people with no conscience and no perception of things that cannot be measured with the senses. I've been a fool, a masochist, a plaything. I've been abused, misunderstood, and confused by men who lack the tools and skills to become anything great or noteworthy in life. And everything for which I've worked has been undervalued and underappreciated time and time again.
But I have my best friend, my liquor, and all those other vices to which I cling to get me over the next four years, and she knows who she is in every sense.
I've squandered time on people not worth the ground upon which my shadow falls, hoping and believing that something that was never there could possibly be found. I've wasted energy on people who've proven immature, self-absorbed, and shallow for the sake of words that mean less than nothing now. I've thrown away thousands of valuable nights wondering about immaterial fantasies that had no hope of ever coming to term. And now I've sudden realized this fact after having spoken with a friend whom I've known for only but a short time.
I've given too much of my precious time to people to whom I shouldn't have given a second glance. I've been too nice, if you can believe it and even if you can't, to vile, treacherous people with no conscience and no perception of things that cannot be measured with the senses. I've been a fool, a masochist, a plaything. I've been abused, misunderstood, and confused by men who lack the tools and skills to become anything great or noteworthy in life. And everything for which I've worked has been undervalued and underappreciated time and time again.
But I have my best friend, my liquor, and all those other vices to which I cling to get me over the next four years, and she knows who she is in every sense.