I am Jack's clenched sphincter. The ******* of the world not knowing where the **** has come but continues to spew.
The love in japan with the fake cats and painted eyes will not save me nor will the things enjoyed in the wee hours of the morning. Hope for something better and go to sleep. Want for something more and turn on the television.
How I long to be an alien, wrapped up in my own things that make sense to me, the foreshadowment of this is quite appealing. When I think of my heroes, not the people that I am obligated to love, but the people who stir emotion deep and unseen, I cry inside.
I feel it in the spongy yellow marrow of my heart bones that support me. They are not there. I was never there. Laughing face of old drunken bewilderment of the entirety of humanity. Why why why why ha ha ha ha aaaand aand the utterment of unmade caracatures in such drunken old men.
Old men and snotty lads have more in common with eachother than any close knit family. Krusty, cantankerous, and spry, they laugh at each other. One feeling and the other knowing or one pretending and the other wandering.
What would my heroes think if they knew I was sober. What would they say? Certainly nothing that wouldn't make me angry or turn away. You cannot be constructive by being constructive, only in doing and in the act of doing will you beat away their snide remarks.
Live alone with others. Smile on the inside more than outside. Don't use the word ferclempt unless you don't really even mean it anyway. Own a cat.