pearshapedboy
I don't think I could ever commit to ordering magazines from those ghouls that knock on my door from time to time. They always seem to be up to no good.
Maybe I just have trust issues. Maybe if they weren't so pushy or attempted to guilt me into buying shit that I don't want I would consider helping them out.
Maybe if their song and dance was actually entertaining I would reach down deep and hand them some money.
Too many maybes if you ask me.
Half of what I write I don't like. The other half seems to fit in somewhere between simple amusements and scab picking. I seem to be only able to write when I am angry. Maybe I need to be angry more often. I need to get out more.
There is no comfort in the world. When you sit and stare through that sheet of glass and wonder if the grass will get any greener, know that it won't. The only fields of joy rest in your mind's eye. When the time comes there will be no one there to help you. You will return to the universe and that will be the end. No ending credits, no redemption. No one to hold your hand as you step into the eternal.
I've never wanted anything so badly as some since of closure from that first taste of companionship. I suppose this torn and weather letter covered in semen will have to suffice.
There we were sitting in front of his fairly attractive women who was much older than I but was still wrinkle free. She had long curly hair that glowed with a red hue in the setting afternoon sun. She kept smiling at me and I could not help but think that she was a fan of the krabby patty.