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Description
We stumble and stub our exposed toes on the hot concrete sidewalk down Chapman in the middle of the day, drunk off our asses, with about a dime and a half to our name, looking for some sad sap to use to get a few bowls in our systems. I speak louder than normally, talking about my pitiful existence and how everyone’s existence is, in some way or another, doomed to be pitiful, but the hope that some other sucker will connect to you and everything will seem right. Like how you felt reading Romeo & Juliet in ninth grade. I can’t seem to walk a straight line or even make a full word, but I know I’m going to find some way to tie this adventure in with the other one-liners in that pitiful journal I carry around with me all the time. In hopes that something fucking BRILLIANT will strike me then and there: when I’m the drunkest I’ve been in a long time, broken hearted and torn between the fact that I love this man – this stone and want to be with him, or if I want to give up on him. And, like the song says, waiting is the hardest part. I just need an excuse. An excuse to call. An excuse to text. An excuse to be near him in some form or another. And here I am, at this dude Alex’s house, watching Venture Bros high as a fucking kite and drunker than Bukowski, questioning my sexuality because the chick in the cartoon’s jumpsuit is VERY revealing, and I’m oddly turned on, but I guess that was the whole aspect behind this objectification of a woman temptress named Coctease or some shit like that, I’m too distracted by her outfit to pay any attention to her name.

It’s funny how we put shit on pedestals: unrequited love, a brand new materialistic fulfillment, the “one that got away”, and when it all comes down to it, they’re not even worth all the effort you put into caring about them. The possessions will break the lovers will replace you with a more functional model, one who isn’t as inward and awkward as I am, who doesn’t rely on substance abuse or sex to loosen her social joints. I guess I’m just a psychopath, considering the fact that I know what I do to myself is wrong, but I do it despite my better judgment. But fuck. Come on. I’m young I have a whole life ahead of me that I can just fuck up repetitively. I always fall for the wrong guy or the right guy at the wrong time. I always break my own heart before I let them do it, and then I continue to fucking wonder why I feel they were growing distant: its because I fucking PUSHED THEM AS FAR THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY HEART. I hurt them and fuck with their brains and play with them like they were marionettes. Just another sideshow in the fucking variety show that I semi-conduct-semi-star-in that is my life. We’re all going to die anyway. Might as well die knowing I’m just some guys sloppy, drunken notch in his bedpost. I just like being drunk and not giving two fucks about Kenny and all his bullshit and all his enjoyment of that view up there on that pedestal. He can stay up there for as long as he likes. He can suck my proverbial left nut for all I care right now. I just want him to know that I really loved him – still do, but I keep hurting myself loving you. Because you’re so far away mentally. Horsepants really fucked with your mind didn’t she? You weren’t like this before you met her. You were once happy.

Description
We stumble and stub our exposed toes on the hot concrete sidewalk down Chapman in the middle of the day, drunk off our asses, with about a dime and a half to our name, looking for some sad sap to use to get a few bowls in our systems. I speak louder than normally, talking about my pitiful existence and how everyone’s existence is, in some way or another, doomed to be pitiful, but the hope that some other sucker will connect to you and everything will seem right. Like how you felt reading Romeo & Juliet in ninth grade. I can’t seem to walk a straight line or even make a full word, but I know I’m going to find some way to tie this adventure in with the other one-liners in that pitiful journal I carry around with me all the time. In hopes that something fucking BRILLIANT will strike me then and there: when I’m the drunkest I’ve been in a long time, broken hearted and torn between the fact that I love this man – this stone and want to be with him, or if I want to give up on him. And, like the song says, waiting is the hardest part. I just need an excuse. An excuse to call. An excuse to text. An excuse to be near him in some form or another. And here I am, at this dude Alex’s house, watching Venture Bros high as a fucking kite and drunker than Bukowski, questioning my sexuality because the chick in the cartoon’s jumpsuit is VERY revealing, and I’m oddly turned on, but I guess that was the whole aspect behind this objectification of a woman temptress named Coctease or some shit like that, I’m too distracted by her outfit to pay any attention to her name.

It’s funny how we put shit on pedestals: unrequited love, a brand new materialistic fulfillment, the “one that got away”, and when it all comes down to it, they’re not even worth all the effort you put into caring about them. The possessions will break the lovers will replace you with a more functional model, one who isn’t as inward and awkward as I am, who doesn’t rely on substance abuse or sex to loosen her social joints. I guess I’m just a psychopath, considering the fact that I know what I do to myself is wrong, but I do it despite my better judgment. But fuck. Come on. I’m young I have a whole life ahead of me that I can just fuck up repetitively. I always fall for the wrong guy or the right guy at the wrong time. I always break my own heart before I let them do it, and then I continue to fucking wonder why I feel they were growing distant: its because I fucking PUSHED THEM AS FAR THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY HEART. I hurt them and fuck with their brains and play with them like they were marionettes. Just another sideshow in the fucking variety show that I semi-conduct-semi-star-in that is my life. We’re all going to die anyway. Might as well die knowing I’m just some guys sloppy, drunken notch in his bedpost. I just like being drunk and not giving two fucks about Kenny and all his bullshit and all his enjoyment of that view up there on that pedestal. He can stay up there for as long as he likes. He can suck my proverbial left nut for all I care right now. I just want him to know that I really loved him – still do, but I keep hurting myself loving you. Because you’re so far away mentally. Horsepants really fucked with your mind didn’t she? You weren’t like this before you met her. You were once happy.