Chestnut Mare
Taking the money, running
I'm not a well put together boy. I'm a swirling mass of hypocritical planets and non-sequacious meteors. At the core of me is instinct. A sun, a compass by which I know right from wrong, an internal atomic clock of black and white. This core keeps everything in orbit, just at the right mathmatical angles for my being to operate. In the last year, a lot of satellites have been launched, cluttering my space. The same heady thought processes that keeps me from doing shrooms and acid properly also keeps me from interacting with friends and family. I couldn't look my family in the eye at my Uncle's funeral, keeping to myself along the bushes and pick-up trucks. I'm much too concerned with what other's think of me. I don't think I've been myself for a good, long time. I've been trying hard, Ringo, to be the Shepard. But maybe I'm the tyranny of evil men? Maybe not, because that's a movie. But here's to being yourself, and not worrying what other's think.
Classy Punk Rock Retards/A Small Fortune in Hoodies
Not being a beautiful man means I should rely on either my charming personality...neither charming nor personable...or my mountainous fortune, which is more aptly described as the cans on the back porch. That pretty much means giving up on finding a decent broad.
Sometimes, mostly when I go return bottles so I can eat, couples catch my eye. Now, I don't usually hate complete strangers but I hate happy couples in public to the point where if I suddenly needed to spontaneously combust, I would move closer to them. Is that healthy? Probably not. Have I turned into a completely bitter hag? Absolutely. Today I saw a guy who was clearly going to be me in 30 years. He was pushing 50 plus and had a 25-ish year old girlfriend. She outweighed him by a rhino and they beyond a doubt met on the internet. That is my grim future: hogging two bottle return machines with my cow-woman while bitter 21 year olds stand behind me, fuming. It's the circle of life and we're all apart of it. Oh, cruel fortune.
Taking the money, running
I'm not a well put together boy. I'm a swirling mass of hypocritical planets and non-sequacious meteors. At the core of me is instinct. A sun, a compass by which I know right from wrong, an internal atomic clock of black and white. This core keeps everything in orbit, just at the right mathmatical angles for my being to operate. In the last year, a lot of satellites have been launched, cluttering my space. The same heady thought processes that keeps me from doing shrooms and acid properly also keeps me from interacting with friends and family. I couldn't look my family in the eye at my Uncle's funeral, keeping to myself along the bushes and pick-up trucks. I'm much too concerned with what other's think of me. I don't think I've been myself for a good, long time. I've been trying hard, Ringo, to be the Shepard. But maybe I'm the tyranny of evil men? Maybe not, because that's a movie. But here's to being yourself, and not worrying what other's think.
Classy Punk Rock Retards/A Small Fortune in Hoodies
Not being a beautiful man means I should rely on either my charming personality...neither charming nor personable...or my mountainous fortune, which is more aptly described as the cans on the back porch. That pretty much means giving up on finding a decent broad.
Sometimes, mostly when I go return bottles so I can eat, couples catch my eye. Now, I don't usually hate complete strangers but I hate happy couples in public to the point where if I suddenly needed to spontaneously combust, I would move closer to them. Is that healthy? Probably not. Have I turned into a completely bitter hag? Absolutely. Today I saw a guy who was clearly going to be me in 30 years. He was pushing 50 plus and had a 25-ish year old girlfriend. She outweighed him by a rhino and they beyond a doubt met on the internet. That is my grim future: hogging two bottle return machines with my cow-woman while bitter 21 year olds stand behind me, fuming. It's the circle of life and we're all apart of it. Oh, cruel fortune.
VIEW 18 of 18 COMMENTS
johnclement:
A Huffy.
schadenfreude:
kudos on your comments to the self-righteous too-cool-for-you assholes in the copied tattoo thread. They make me want to punch a wall.