drunk but not ready
I have run out of lotus to eat
Finishing the last of the chillable red; I am Odysseus, all be it with a few minor changes.
The wine skin is now made of plastic, which I ripped free from its cardboard box.
There is no trapped crew and the Cyclops must be me, for when I fall over blind and drunk, I will be able to exclaim that nobody did this to me.
You have no idea how pleased and saddened I am, to be able to envision my person as the first anti-hero and as one of his many foes, all while drinking boxed wine alone in my apartment. How droll how urbane, can you believe some people don't know who P.G. Wodehouse is? That some bastard is taking their life at face value?
Can you feel anything less then pity for the poor unfortunates who weren't raised to deconstruct? That there are people in this world that write words to express themselves? Not as some grand glass bead game. How they must suffer, how I would love to labor under their folly.
To see anger as itself, not as an easement towards cannily discourses, to sweat real salt not crocodile tears.
It's sad to realize that I hunger for terrible times, if only for material. To think how much I may miss in my thirst for noteworthy experiences. But would I accept anything less then concert grade misfortunes, I think not. To hear it told, I fear that the realizations implicit in the mono myth, have taken our most intimate details, written them large across the sky and stolen meaning from our actions no matter how small.
I just want to get drunk and fall asleep on the couch with a sword without thinking I'm Roland making a last stand before I succumb to the evil Saracens and their heretical throw up magic
I wish to make my own myths. No matter how trite and be reminded of no one as I create them.
Finishing the last of the chillable red; I am Odysseus, all be it with a few minor changes.
The wine skin is now made of plastic, which I ripped free from its cardboard box.
There is no trapped crew and the Cyclops must be me, for when I fall over blind and drunk, I will be able to exclaim that nobody did this to me.
You have no idea how pleased and saddened I am, to be able to envision my person as the first anti-hero and as one of his many foes, all while drinking boxed wine alone in my apartment. How droll how urbane, can you believe some people don't know who P.G. Wodehouse is? That some bastard is taking their life at face value?
Can you feel anything less then pity for the poor unfortunates who weren't raised to deconstruct? That there are people in this world that write words to express themselves? Not as some grand glass bead game. How they must suffer, how I would love to labor under their folly.
To see anger as itself, not as an easement towards cannily discourses, to sweat real salt not crocodile tears.
It's sad to realize that I hunger for terrible times, if only for material. To think how much I may miss in my thirst for noteworthy experiences. But would I accept anything less then concert grade misfortunes, I think not. To hear it told, I fear that the realizations implicit in the mono myth, have taken our most intimate details, written them large across the sky and stolen meaning from our actions no matter how small.
I just want to get drunk and fall asleep on the couch with a sword without thinking I'm Roland making a last stand before I succumb to the evil Saracens and their heretical throw up magic
I wish to make my own myths. No matter how trite and be reminded of no one as I create them.