it has been a while and i have been drifting.

i'm stretching, sweaty, i'm popping it all back into place. i'm pretending i know what i'm doing. see what i've done? it's all legitimate now, when i hit google google hits back, and it's strange, staring at my name staring back at me.

i've creeped and came up, i joined the 21st century, i quit living in the past, just another jerk with a sidekick. no more talking to strangers for me. we're all fingers on the same invisible hand, a phantom limb. we all got dirty nails that need trimming... and i'm all thumbs.

i've switched focus, turned the knob both directions and let it rest somewhere in the middle. i broke my heart by breaking another, and i'm better for it. i'm exercising, rolling my own, knocking dust off my equipment, working inbetween living instead of the other way around.

-bobby

it's cheesy, i know, that scene in fight club where it's said "it's only when you've lost everything that you're free to do anything." it's a pretty phrase but for me and i think most people it's a tad unattainable. i dream that my psychotic other half will blow all my anthill mentality's shit the fuck up, it would all be so easy, if my tree could shake on it's own.

i'm giving up... trying, i guess. i was assured that once i eventually give up on everything, i won't have anything left to give up. and then, i'll have to start up again.

this should take me... by new year's at the most. it's as easy as growing out your hair.

this isn't going to happen in that palahniuk sense, but in that i'm gonna try and try to streamline how i live... luckily a lot of what i do is erratic, so the exact opposite would be pretty much the same, just bizarro'ed. i trying to become less of a consumer. i haven't bought a new robot in months, and everyone's mistified. i've been working fitter, faster, stronger. i'm starting to realize that just settling for what i'm given isn't gonna cut it any longer, and that now it's all mine to grab. i'm changing it all up, i'm sharpening my teeth.

i think because i tend to isolate myself i became eccentric and i tend to hold on to childish things, that i hold on to my childhood because that's when i felt most secure... i think that i had a hard time growing up, and all this shit i've surrounded myself with was my own stupid way of coping with it, and it's taken me forever to realize that something ain't right.

then, i think of all these other assholes i know (and be assholes, i mean fellow jerks), who have rooms full of vinyl, or computers, or empty liquor bottles, or pornography or some other waste of energy, and i see how they are a lot like me, they have their ups and downs too, and everybody needs a hobby.

i feel like i'm sick of all this shit i'm into, like now i'd rather collect information and philosophy instead of the material end of my means. but i wonder, why can't i do it all at once, and instead of it all cheering me up like it used to it pisses me off, it reminds me of wasted time, burnt out effort. and was it allo for me? was it making me happy or was i trying to make an impression, was i trying to be someone for all the somebodies i don't know?

so i don't know, i don't know whether or not i'm just losing faith, waking up, or becoming an adult™. it's probably a little bit of all three.

-bobby

it's been a long time, hasn't it, since i fooled myself into thinking that anything mattered?

i decided to give it all up, trade it in, set for a spell. it hurts a little bit, when your hair is long enough to poke directly into your eyes and no place else, but you get used to it.

so i've been fucking around... desktop publishing, pokemon leaf green, vestax handytrax, coca cola in glass bottles, yerba mate 24/7.

everybody's working for the weekend, loverboy crooned so many years ago, but wow, did they ever have that figured the fuck out.

i'm still chasing whatever it is i can't catch. i'm still fooling myself into whatever it is i believe. and i'm still mistified with everything that's going on around me. i'm just not looking over my shoulder anymore.

-bobby

i save these up i think, i try to reflect on what went wrong and what went right. i write them all disjointed: just now i tab-shifted to the begining and began this double jointed reboot, right in the middle of the following paragraph... seriously, i went out to eat chinese food in the middle of writing this. i pass through my day and try to remember little stupid interesting things, inbetween episodes of unconciousness and concious lever pulling/button pushing. i just went and filled up the water jug, another random repeat activity, an excuse to keep it all together. everything is such the gawd damn opposite of a whim. i'm such a cartoon, a mishapen rain cloud, forever grumbling about being chased away by sunshine.

i left home and came back again, again, back to my ol' hometown, back to the girl who still pretends to like me, back to my dad, back to my mom, back to why i left it all in the first place. again, i continue to fall for the olddest of jokes, the fake smiles, the obvious rough patches, the dramitization, the carsickness of it all. dad's still a drunk, mom's still a punching bag, i'm still not aware of how much i sigh, roll my eyes, and talk beneath my breath. i remind myself i take 2 vacations on purpose, because any little part of this one can infect and retard the other.

they've all made slow progress in one way or another. dad's been trying therapy, courtesy of the vetran's administration, and in typical fashion has used his simple hatred to find something wrong with it. he still drinks, jabbing frowning relatives with two stiff fingers, asking why they ain't laughin'. mom's a gym fanatic now, escaping the old man on a treadmill logged, miles upon miles away from him. he pretends to be nice to her, maybe for my benefit, until he's had a few... then, the dogs have more status. she still takes it and likes it, she still doesn't stand up for herself.

i guess that's why when i do, everyone gets antsy, like their sure i've played this game before, they are positive i've read the script, but i pulled a bill murray and mad libbed it all, fucked it up. they're waiting for their cues but i'm grinding their versace sunglasses into the parking lot concrete. i drank all their fuckin' lattes, i ain't playing the role, i'm doing it my way, by ear and by heart. my parents aren't the only ones, either.

my friend noble is selling drugs, especially methamphetamine, and i can't blame him, 'cause he's an ex-con. he can't get a real job because of his record, so instead he does what he's best at, what he's always done. if i had called him before i showed up, i'm sure he would have hid it all from me. he was embarassed, but he's fucking brilliant. he's tapping away at his computer one minute when the beeper goes off and he leaves to sling. he's got what it takes but he doesn't know how to do anything. none of this is different, it is all the same. another friend of mine handicapped long ago, is sleeping with one of his language teachers and has convinced her to leave her husband of 6 years, and run away with him. he can't use one arm, but he's still got it. this is what i expected, this is how i pictured them all to be, up to their old tricks, just a little further down whatever path they were on when i last left.

i knew it was all gonna be like this and i came anyway. what i excelled at was the time inbetween, wired on black coffee balanced out with sativa, pretending to be a truckdriver, playing dress-up again, taking pictures, cutting and pasting as the miles ran by. going home is a bad dream or a b-movie, one you keep having seen over and over... you know the killer is hiding in the closet, and before, when you used to turn away suprised, now you wait for the hot blood to trickle down your sticky face.

so i went... and i had fun too, but it's the shitty thoughts that you remember best in the end. my friends and i indulged in music piracy. my mom went with me to laugh in observation as i tried on various discount suits. my dad and i shared political thoughts over homemade minestrone. my mom apoligizes for the broken things that aren't her fault. my dad screams in his sleep, in between his snoring. he told her off on the 4th of july and i left the house, no trip home complete without a patented teary-eyed drive through the hills. when i left he attacked her again, telling her it was all her fault i wouldn't talk to him. if they weren't my parents i'd have abandoned them long ago.

he puts her down, he apoligizes, he tears her up and he makes up for it. he throws her away and she boomarangs back. he's the sweetest man before 11 AM, he gets things done, he's introspective. he's everything that he is not in the afternoon. we had long talks like we always do. i could only hope this time it stuck instead of going in one ear and right out the other. i relived it while he listened again for the first time. he told me about the headless little girls he sees in his sleep, how he douses them with silver bullets but gets everyone else's t-shirt wet in the process. i say i understand but i don't, i can't. i can't ever imagine what it was he went through. he was sorry, he said he'd promise, but i told him that wouldn't mean anything to me. prove it, i told him... show me! show me you can be a better man. show me you can respect her as a person if you can't respect her as a wife. show me you can be the father i always wish i had.

-bobby

i save these up i think, i try to reflect on what went wrong and what went right. i write them all disjointed: just now i tab-shifted to the begining and began this double jointed reboot, right in the middle of the following paragraph... seriously, i went out to eat chinese food in the middle of writing this. i pass through my day and try to remember little stupid interesting things, inbetween episodes of unconciousness and concious lever pulling/button pushing. i just went and filled up the water jug, another random repeat activity, an excuse to keep it all together. everything is such the gawd damn opposite of a whim. i'm such a cartoon, a mishapen rain cloud, forever grumbling about being chased away by sunshine.

i left home and came back again, again, back to my ol' hometown, back to the girl who still pretends to like me, back to my dad, back to my mom, back to why i left it all in the first place. again, i continue to fall for the olddest of jokes, the fake smiles, the obvious rough patches, the dramitization, the carsickness of it all. dad's still a drunk, mom's still a punching bag, i'm still not aware of how much i sigh, roll my eyes, and talk beneath my breath. i remind myself i take 2 vacations on purpose, because any little part of this one can infect and retard the other.

they've all made slow progress in one way or another. dad's been trying therapy, courtesy of the vetran's administration, and in typical fashion has used his simple hatred to find something wrong with it. he still drinks, jabbing frowning relatives with two stiff fingers, asking why they ain't laughin'. mom's a gym fanatic now, escaping the old man on a treadmill logged, miles upon miles away from him. he pretends to be nice to her, maybe for my benefit, until he's had a few... then, the dogs have more status. she still takes it and likes it, she still doesn't stand up for herself.

i guess that's why when i do, everyone gets antsy, like their sure i've played this game before, they are positive i've read the script, but i pulled a bill murray and mad libbed it all, fucked it up. they're waiting for their cues but i'm grinding their versace sunglasses into the parking lot concrete. i drank all their fuckin' lattes, i ain't playing the role, i'm doing it my way, by ear and by heart. my parents aren't the only ones, either.

my friend noble is selling drugs, especially methamphetamine, and i can't blame him, 'cause he's an ex-con. he can't get a real job because of his record, so instead he does what he's best at, what he's always done. if i had called him before i showed up, i'm sure he would have hid it all from me. he was embarassed, but he's fucking brilliant. he's tapping away at his computer one minute when the beeper goes off and he leaves to sling. he's got what it takes but he doesn't know how to do anything. none of this is different, it is all the same. another friend of mine handicapped long ago, is sleeping with one of his language teachers and has convinced her to leave her husband of 6 years, and run away with him. he can't use one arm, but he's still got it. this is what i expected, this is how i pictured them all to be, up to their old tricks, just a little further down whatever path they were on when i last left.

i knew it was all gonna be like this and i came anyway. what i excelled at was the time inbetween, wired on black coffee balanced out with sativa, pretending to be a truckdriver, playing dress-up again, taking pictures, cutting and pasting as the miles ran by. going home is a bad dream or a b-movie, one you keep having seen over and over... you know the killer is hiding in the closet, and before, when you used to turn away suprised, now you wait for the hot blood to trickle down your sticky face.

so i went... and i had fun too, but it's the shitty thoughts that you remember best in the end. my friends and i indulged in music piracy. my mom went with me to laugh in observation as i tried on various discount suits. my dad and i shared political thoughts over homemade minestrone. my mom apoligizes for the broken things that aren't her fault. my dad screams in his sleep, in between his snoring. he told her off on the 4th of july and i left the house, no trip home complete without a patented teary-eyed drive through the hills. when i left he attacked her again, telling her it was all her fault i wouldn't talk to him. if they weren't my parents i'd have abandoned them long ago.

he puts her down, he apoligizes, he tears her up and he makes up for it. he throws her away and she boomarangs back. he's the sweetest man before 11 AM, he gets things done, he's introspective. he's everything that he is not in the afternoon. we had long talks like we always do. i could only hope this time it stuck instead of going in one ear and right out the other. i relived it while he listened again for the first time. he told me about the headless little girls he sees in his sleep, how he douses them with silver bullets but gets everyone else's t-shirt wet in the process. i say i understand but i don't, i can't. i can't ever imagine what it was he went through. he was sorry, he said he'd promise, but i told him that wouldn't mean anything to me. prove it, i told him... show me! show me you can be a better man. show me you can respect her as a person if you can't respect her as a wife. show me you can be the father i always wish i had.

-bobby

i felt like i was wearing a disguise... i was incognito, staying away and straying far, far off the proverbial path, led by adventure to a place up by the sea. up and down the coast i went, switchbacking, condensing life as i knew it into what would keep me warm, what could get me drunk, what will fill me up, what might fit into the car.

i was sleeping in trees. i was making motorcycle noises with my mouth, shaggy haired, wearing flip flops, not at all like my regular self. people that have known me for years couldn't have picked me out of a line-up. i quit keeping track, i forgot all language and instead began to talk like a stranger. my aura glowed green, and i blended in, bronzed, taut, breaking hearts with a shoplifter's carelessness. i shook all their hands, and i stayed away from where i was from.

i began to hate where i was going while continuing to be in love with how i was getting there. the ritzy fucking one floor supermarket had a gawddamn elevator in it, for christ's sake. i laughed at the absurdness of it all. i longed for my everyday life as i knew it... i'd see a pretty girl and wish i was clean shaven as i smoothed my sideburns down. i was disarmed, in disorder, when my callouses disappeared.

i was on my way back and i prayed for a catastrophe, to die at once and true on the road, not wanting to return to the life of a rotting fruit, not wanting to remain caged, i wanted an assassain to be waiting in my apartment. i do not want to work my whole life away and settle down at the end, making up for lost time. i want to learn what it takes to break the longest chains, to cut clark kent into tiny pieces and drown him down the drain.

-bobby

in a white trash wonderland, i'm hop-scotching my way through, landing on the chalk lines and smudging up all the little kid's borders. it's the superstar doldrums, starring yours truly, and i just need to get away, let my hair grow out, take off my shirt and let my pale skin blister, let my scars get some sun. they say that it's always better on holiday.

i need to remember why this all started in the first place... it was my evacuation, my map to the homes of stars but i got lost right before i really got started. it is normal, right? to forget where you are going and just settle down, to give up on love because you're getting sexed, to extinguish yourself with chemicals only to burn brighter? why did i get invited to a pot luck and bring along only kool-aid to satisfy the masses?

i'm afraid that this is it, that i don't have anything else in me. i push and i heave, i exercise and i'm rewarded but it's always so stillborn... yet, i still find the right words, and when i dust it off i'm still finding it on when i distinctly remember switching it all off. i need a different map, i need instructions in another language, i need the ruined means to my end.

i'm still so damn thirsty, but i just don't know what i want to drink.

-bobby

i'm on my way to a midnight dinner for one, and i see this radioactive perfect couple, a supernatural pacific islander from outer-space duo, and you see the love between them, the cartoon dotted-lines shooting back and forth between their shining black eyes. i judge them i think, "how did a guy like that trick a girl like that into falling in love with him?" but it's no trick, she's made from him, if they weren't fucking they'd be brother and sister... the look on her face is evidence enough, she's a completed goddess, a parking lot earth mother, and their embrace just makes them glow brighter until i have to hold my hand up and look away.

i'm pretending not to notice the sated sex in their eyes, and i'm walking in, head down, my frame focused... i'm looking at my hands, smiling at strangers without making eye-contact as i dart over the drawings i've left on my shopping list. i'm gonna ditch it, i'm gonna drop it right here, right here on this spot. i want someone strange to find it, a girl with a cat's head or someone european to be moved, cherish it, pin it up, and fall in love with me long after i've gone.

-bobby

the tourney was held at my friend's house, a veritable car crash black box recording of a subhuman tempe city-dwelling.

have you ever felt like at a certain place, you had to act like an asshole in order to feel comfortable? like, no matter what, someone there was gonna go outta their way to make sure you didn't sit right? that's how i feel at that place, armor on, where the air is heavy with an invisible smoke you can feel filling your lungs, tickling your nose on exit with so many sparkly dog hairs... where strange drunks poking you with their fingers hold shrieking intervals like an oiled sawblade, but with carefully missing teeth.

it's where everyone is trying to convince you to agree upon something, anything, any one thing just so that it can and will be held up against you later in sobriety. a weapon, any weapon to feign wisdom, enhance drama or talk shit... the old pros do as they wish and choose not to recall it later, fascinated with the fresh blood, not because they genuinely like them, but because it's just become so boring swimming with all the other fuckin' assholes. the sharks all ask to ask you questions and take bites of your style to impress their dead nasal girlfriends later when they've left you alone.

as they all get closer i want to bury them even more... how did i meet all these fuckin' people in the first place? this is the wrong road. this fuckin' treadmill ain't the way back. this is fuckin' purgatory. all the headaches, the two-stepping, the side stepping, it all ain't worth it.

i'm better off alone, all by myself... maybe it's that i can't keep up, maybe it's that it's scaring me. maybe i need to leave it all behind, fuck all these people, remember them for what they used to be instead of what they've all become. i've grown up and they've grown older, i'm done drinking water and they're still drinking blood.

-bobby

she lied... she's a dirty liar and i fell for it... she was just being polite and i was in denial... she said she was saving my feelings but instead she was devouring my dead, rabbit-eared affection... i shoulda known, i probably saw it coming and i just ignored it like so much else in my zombie life...

so, so much for muses... so much for beauty and so much for inspiration... i'm back to lighting my own fires with visceral kindling and strike anywhere foreign substances...

i could analyze what went wrong but deep inside i knew the ship would sink all along... hope got the best of me, that stupid little glimmer tricked me into thinking that all the details i paid attention to would rub off in the long run...

the whole time she was accepting my gifts with feigned interest, basking in the attention but fucking someone else, letting me flaunt my art while witholding the real truth... she's bleeding my heart, bleeding me dry, leading me on, loving every minute of it.

i'm not a statistic damnit! i'm not some fucking archtype on mystery date! my heart is not a padlock to be purchased in a 99 cent store and left to rust on graduation day!

-bobby