"Why are you running away from us?"  my boss asked me.
"I quit" I said.
"I just quit."
There's no hostilities, or hard feelings.
No tears, or jokes, or anything you could've done different.
This was only ever about money, and time, and the correlation between how much of one would earn me the other.
Eventually the correlation fell into the negatives though.
It stopped earning me money, and started costing me time.
It cost me sleep.
It made me bored or depressed.
Even my liver was miserable.
He had to put up with this job too.
So I just quit.
"What'll you do now?" he asked.
I told him I was thinking of becoming an internationally renowned criminal.
All three of the other security guards at my job laughed.
I didn't.

As I walk through the park, I can feel myself slip away.
The eyes go numb.
The brain goes high functioning but super rational.
My skin doesn't fit anymore,
Like a suit that never got tailored properly.
The doctor calls it Dissociating.
I see that shopping cart man.
The soap from his last shower has long since washed away.
His skin is the cracked, brown leather of a bull whip and his voice rings
    out like an Indiana Jones anthem.
He speaks in parables and nonsensical phrases.
I wonder if he is me.
Or am I him?
Walking through the park, watching him, I see no recognition of this
    world in his eyes, and wonder what he's living in.
Maybe his entire life is a delusion and he sees his life through my eyes.
Is what I've been seeing and living what he sees and lives?
Will I wake up one day, and look around and realize I'm in this park?
I've always been here.
I told the Doctor I don't think so.
I don't think I'm actually Dissociative.
I just often argue the actuality of my own existence with myself.

I once realized that I had stopped dating because I was bored.
I listened to 100 women, on 100 dates, and the stories
     all started to sound the same.
I was only listening because I wanted to hear something new.

I want you to tell me you're a circus freak, and show me your skill.
I want you to tell me about that guy you murdered once.
I want you to tell me about the time you went Skiing in an Avalanche.
Anything, for the love of all that is good and holy.
Just don't tell me about your job.

I want you to tell me about the most uncomfortable thing you've ever masturbated to.
I want you to tell me about the missing child you found.
I want you to tell me about that one book that inspired you and changed you, forever.
Anything.
Tell me anything at all.
Just don't tell me about your Ex.

I want you to tell me about that time you spit fire during a luau.
I want you to tell me about your wedding on a mountaintop in Tibet.
I want you to tell me about the time you took Acid, and turned into a bird.
Anything.
Just don't talk about the weather.

He said he, "Pulled himself up by his boot straps" and made his first million by the time he was my age.

I looked down.
I was wearing slip ons.