To celebrate broken promises, I'm back until my account expires. I've already experienced a lifetimes worth of pain, so what's two more weeks?
So, before my Grandfather commited suicide, he wrote a note to give to me and for me only. I bought a Mossberg 12 gauge off a friend tonight and as I was searching for my cleaning shit I found the note in a shoe box. This is what it says.
"Jay, you're going to meet a lot of people in your life. You're never going to meet a single one that won't lie to your face. Be careful who you trust."
I wish he was wrong.
Fuck sobriety. Fuck pretending everything is ok. Fuck happy. Fuck Portland. Fuck idle hands. Fuck attention whores. Fuck liars. Fuck blind faith. Welcome to fate Jay. Your mother and grandmother and father all told you this would happen.
More than likely going back to Wyoming. I miss my beard. I miss my guns. I miss my truck. I miss real people. I miss getting drunk in my basement and reading psychology books. I miss my leatherbound copy of Dante's Inferno. I miss sitting on my back porch with my old 10 gauge on my knee.
I've always been a redneck. I've always been smarter than everyone I've ever met except for two or three people. I've never met anyone: I didn't lose faith in, had my trust broken, or, didn't generally fuck with me or fuck me over. But, in Wyoming, you can avoid who ever the fuck you want. You can go to the woods, drink, and just be crazy. Saddle up fuckwad.
So, before my Grandfather commited suicide, he wrote a note to give to me and for me only. I bought a Mossberg 12 gauge off a friend tonight and as I was searching for my cleaning shit I found the note in a shoe box. This is what it says.
"Jay, you're going to meet a lot of people in your life. You're never going to meet a single one that won't lie to your face. Be careful who you trust."
I wish he was wrong.
Fuck sobriety. Fuck pretending everything is ok. Fuck happy. Fuck Portland. Fuck idle hands. Fuck attention whores. Fuck liars. Fuck blind faith. Welcome to fate Jay. Your mother and grandmother and father all told you this would happen.
More than likely going back to Wyoming. I miss my beard. I miss my guns. I miss my truck. I miss real people. I miss getting drunk in my basement and reading psychology books. I miss my leatherbound copy of Dante's Inferno. I miss sitting on my back porch with my old 10 gauge on my knee.
I've always been a redneck. I've always been smarter than everyone I've ever met except for two or three people. I've never met anyone: I didn't lose faith in, had my trust broken, or, didn't generally fuck with me or fuck me over. But, in Wyoming, you can avoid who ever the fuck you want. You can go to the woods, drink, and just be crazy. Saddle up fuckwad.