Mondays

I notice a lot of people addicted to themselves and not in the grueling self-obsessed way where every other sentence starts with “I”. Im talking about those who exist in a room with riddles they wrote for themselves that they can never solve. A puzzle of emotion with missing pieces and a silent self devotion. The people who wait in a crowded room to be called over and it never happens. Those who need a shot before they can speak openly about themselves. Its not easy living with yourself and I think that’s why most don’t do it.

At least on the first of April I don’t feel like the only fool in the room.  

Theres a heaviness to the air lately that doesn’t quite feel safe enough to breathe. I know we all feel it. The food tastes otherwise, the grass looks just a little grayer. Toilet paper isn’t quite as soft. Colds a little colder. Hots a little hotter. Teeth are little TOO white. I wish there were another way to explain it but you people have explained this shit to death. Explaining is just a hobby now and everyones in on it.

So please explain to me why you threw on five sprays of Dior Savauge before getting into my car and choking us all out or explain to me why those without gratitude earn it from everyone else or explain to me why literature is all smut and milk and honey now or explain to me why I should like your taste in movies better than my own. Fuck off. Whatever. Ill just sit here and condition my boots like an asshole and do my best to avoid your inflated ego cause someone said you had good taste once and you probably paid them for it.

Thoughtless Rhythm

I can never decipher if the walls are too loud or the room is too quiet. A knock on the door is enough to break the monotony even if a silent prayer waits for me outside. Right before they ask me for money-No. It can’t be the walls. It has to be the poorly poured concrete outside on the walking path. One false move in any direction can cause distortion. You have to wonder how deep that thread goes. How stepping on a cockroach might have shifted your entire day and you didn’t even realize it. There is no way for certain to know what your day would have looked like had you not stepped on the cockroach. Maybe spending time cleaning the bottom of your shoe saved you from something terrible… or something great or something mundane. Which is almost worse than either extreme.  

I was walking around a Barnes and Noble and felt pretty hollow, then I realized I was in the manga section.  

No.  

I take that back.  

Things can get too bad. Things can also get too good. Maybe that’s how things get to be so bad. When things get too good to let go, any ending, no matter how fashionable or unique makes the bad a willful leap into hell.  

You can’t be afraid of the good though. This is all to say that I need to let it unravel. Unravel slowly. When I sit down to write these stories it’s like I’m slowly removing each vein and resting it underneath a microscope, staring at the ugliest parts of myself. Each rotting cell, placing it in a dream, stirring it into a nightmare and exposing it to the elements. The raw nature of the sun and moon. To derive color and a little bit of good.  

Yes. Its true. Sometimes Im full of shit. As long as Im not full of whatever you got goin on. Your scent trail is designed to attract ant eaters and your average Thursday night dirty bourbon attendee. Imagine the bartenders recognizing you as a regular. Id rather brush my teeth with battery acid and eat leftover ramen. I want a stat that tells us how many profile photos on hinge are taken on the same Canvas balcony in Albuquerque 

Car accidents have no place in fail compilations.  

I wrote this while sitting in my truck and watched the American flag wave in the wind but it wasn’t waving at me.