An insatiable rant is upon the brink. Without a doubt, my mind spins slowly as I count the days until my memories forget. Forgetting lousy trips, forgetting simple chats, forgetting things that were trapped inside something else
quite unimportant, uneventful in a way. Like taking a sledgehammer and filing away at a stump. Looping the beef and punching a wall.
If boredom is inevitable why should it be boring at all? Why not just coin it life and take a piss? Squat, shoot, one-hand it, whatever the hell you choose. Maybe my new years resolution should include, "Wake up and smell the waffles--grow up and embrace loneliness. Convert it into time well spent. Lap up the cold water and breathe in whatever well spent mechanism engulfs your mind and embraces your inherit suave-like persona."
Agenda:
1. Chuckle
2. Watch
3. Lie
4. Repent
5. Write
6. Count sheep
7. Repeat nonsense
Liquor me up captain. Although excuses may come at a price, I believe this ticket has run it's course. The taste of alcohol disgusts me, yet, it is the aroma that sickens me overall. Like a moldy blanket it engulfs me-- it let's me forget that I'm bored.
I would like to take up boxing to alleviate this problem--well, of this fiend that chooses to hide in the shadows: piss drunk boredom; it sits in the corner, knocks on the empty spot in your shallow mind. Because no one can stop it--so far. If I mend these boxing gloves to my flesh--my knuckles, at least-- I can gold glove my way out.
Out into what though?
Outer space? Strawberry fields? Recess?
God, I miss recess. Captain, hand me that rancid stuff.
This might get a little out of hand.
