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.