And I sit for the second night in a row, in front of this screen after tossing my day away to celebration in order to drown the complaints that sneak into my mind. So this life thing stares me in the face again and I just beg for a cigarette to occupy my mind. I was fairly wasted earlier, but now I’m sober. Sobriety always seems to give me one thing. It’s always easier to put those things out of my mind when I’m not intoxicated.
But dig the ramblings of a drunk little mind that wonders what to hold on to and what to let go of. I wish I wasn’t such an ass all of the time. I mean it, even if no one believes me. I want to help, but that never really pans out well. Actually, that’s not really true. I mean, I fuck up an awful lot but people seem to always be very willing to forgive me. Maybe it’s because I’m cute.
Some jackass on the internet who was pretending to act like he is capable of thought called Kerouac a dumbass and tried to justify it by saying that he can relate to him. Listen up tampon, do me, you and everyone else on the planet a favor and shut your little fucking mouth, especially when you’re talking about my idol. You obviously have no clue as to what you are talking about so you had best just stop trying to lie to yourself and everyone else because that sadly glorious man died from that which made him into what he was and that is something your microscopic little fucking brain couldn’t even begin to come close to understanding. I think Twilight is more at your level, shithead.
Honestly that is most likely my problem. That I keep all my madness to myself. I’m hiding my mind because I’m ashamed of my thoughts and poor old Jack would be very upset with me, if he could see me now. Even when I write, I hold back. So what it bugs the shit out of me because I don’t know whether you even like me anymore, I don’t think I’m all that unjustified. But I’ll still try and play the gentleman (which is stupid) because I don’t want to blow any chance that I might have (even though I’m sure that I will). Everything goes wrong in my head and when I see how things are, I just panic and close up and feel like I can’t compete. And maybe I can’t. Maybe I’m really not good enough, even though I was once convinced you believed otherwise.
Ok, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to stop here, just for now and pick up tomorrow. I’m not going to get rid of what I have here, because that’s a terrible habit. I want to start understanding the permanence of words.
So I woke a few hours ago and like every morning when I wake up, I don’t get out of bed. I just sit and think about the dreams that I’ve had and I’ve now forgotten. I think and I think and then I think about thinking and then the thought of thinking too much comes into my mind, so I sit and dwell and think about that for awhile. And then in the fashion of the last two days, I pick up a book and read for a bit. I like that new plan of attack.
But I left this last night in the hopes that something far more substantial would emerge from the seeds that I left to grow. And I’ve got nothing, but it may be something. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
There. I think I’ve said that I don’t know enough times that it has finally managed to lose its meaning and I now must be forced to at least lie and act like I know something. So I’ll tell you what I know. I know that what there is in my mind and what there is in the world are two different things and that is bullshit because they can be the same if I want them to be. But ha-ha, that my little sentient beings is the trick. I don’t want my head to match up with any kind of expectations of the real world. I want my mind to be this beautifully elaborate paradise into which I can escape whenever I please.
Now, I and anyone else who reads this crap knows that my little brain is far from what you’d call a paradise, but it’s not about what you call paradise. If my thoughts were all perfectly in harmony with each other and never caused me pain, then I would grow bored and create my own pain. Pain is beauty and that is why you’re so beautiful. I mean think about it, I’ve created so much pain in my desire because it’s beautiful. Or maybe that’s not right. Maybe beauty is pain. Yeah, that’s more accurate. Because you’re beautiful there’s pain. Either way, it’s me who’s feeding the fire. You’ve done a rather stand up job of trying to send me away and I’m sure that’s not easy. Or maybe it is. Maybe I’m just a thorn in your side and nothing more. Maybe I annoy you and you hate me.
Still, I am this person and that is worth something. Quite a bit actually. So I should do something with all of this life, but I sit and type away. It’s become the only thing that I really know anymore and that’s fine. I just need to do all of this and that and all the other things that make me smile and giggle. And with that, I say go fuck yourself. But only if you think Kerouac is a dumbass. You don’t talk about a tortured soul like that, least of all one of the grandest and most mad souls of all time. He is my king and I will fight a nigga about this. Besides, using Kerouac to get girls is my shtick.