Jesus
Christ how did I get myself in such a predicament, sitting here in this dingy
apartment without so much as a warm breeze much less anything remotely
resembling air conditioning. To my initial left sits a bottle of freshly
cracked open Evan Williams with a modest portion poured into a small mason’s
jar, to my right the empty expanse of a room rarely used in this sorry excuse
for a Polish Penthouse. In front of me is this beastly geriatric excuse of a
laptop expect me to put my fingers to work, to type something somewhat coherent
or at least the rough musing and ramblings of a confused and carefree twenty
something that thinks he knows the fucking world for what it really is. I sit
here staring at these surroundings knowing what I should do and how to do it
and all I can think of is smoking a god damned cigarette. The ash tray next to
the bourbon taunts me, practically screams at me to scrounge up whatever pocket
change I can find in this place and go buy another pack of smokes. The fucking
things will be the death of me one day and I do not even care.
So what do
I do? I give in to the vice that scream into my head like the tortured yells of
the damned that lie hell bound, whether it be a figurative hell or some true
Hell that awaits us as I have been spoon-fed by many a zealot. I care for
neither and merely shake my head taking another draw from the cancer ridden
stick that will no doubt one day cause me for more pain than the joy it does
now. There are days I realize my self destructive nature, and others I ignore
it like a child ignores his vegetables. I’m delusional and I make no effort to
hide it, in fact I daresay I prefer it that way, as some wise old bastard once
said, “Ignorance is Bliss”. I suppose I
should make something of these incoherent ramblings, perhaps tell some form of
a narrative but I cannot quite place my finger on what, regardless I ask not a
one of you shed a tear or feel concern or pity for my plights. I do not ask for
sympathy, and not for some simple reason as pride or to retain some feeling of self
worth, I just do not like empathetic behavior. I am not altruistic nor to I
pretend to be, I have never really been capable of empathy, sympathy, or even
remote concern for others and things they do. It all truly seems like a waste
of good thought to me, and if I paint myself the antagonist for these thoughts
then by all means frame me that way.
What was the point of all this, and what
did I expect to gain. I’ll chalk this one up to a rusty mind, dry wit, and out
of practice fingers. As I look at the ever lessening glass of bourbon I think
to myself that there is something in me to bring out, something even I haven’t
seen yet and god dammit I will drag the fucker out with a crow bar if I have to
kicking and screaming and covered in blood. I’ll birth the damn thing myself,
feed it, and nurture it until the time is right, then when its time to sit down
with it and tell it about the birds and the bees I can just toss it down the
slaughterhouse chute until it becomes just another process product of an
overactive self indulgent society hell-bent on watching the world burn. And I
will just stand there in awe… and I am going to laugh.
