Hard Times

I wake up to the searing sun accompanied by the morning birds singing their praises for another day. I've gotten to know those delicate chirps and obnoxious squawks so well. My relationship with my morning birds has been a tumultuous one. They're were times, as the sun greeted the horizon, and the air became crisp and cold. That I would feel as if that sun was for me and those birds were my choir. It was a gloriously lonely and beautiful feeling. Then they're were the drug-induced alcohol-blurred mornings in which I'd cringe hearing the birds mock me and the sounds of creaking metal, and horns. I'd put on my sunglasses, light a cigarette, and the morning dirge would begin. The procession of boring people rushing to do boring things. The only place I wanted to go was straight to hell. Where it's dark and filled with old blues musicians, poets, authors, and mass murders. My kind of people.

Rather than rushing to find self-identity through mass acceptance or running towards self-destruction. I find myself learning to find beauty within the struggle. For some, they can finger themselves and have the world cum all over their chest, opportunities slowly dripping off. They're content with knowing if they just roll over they'll be given another chance. Then there are the rest of us. The cum dumpster divers.

When I was a living out of my car in China Town. I'd spend my nights at Hard Times. A 24 hour jack shack. It had everything I needed: free coffee, a creepy 30 year old dude who had a thing for underage punk rock girls, and a crack whore that lived in the broom closet. I'd be wearing my bear foot slippers and playing bongos on silicone replicas of celebrity asses while she cleaned the booths and gave hand jobs, blow jobs, or whatever for the price of a summer blockbuster. She'd come out holding her bra asking me to put it back on for her. While I'd help her get into her sweat-stained nude colored bra she'd talk about how she was going to save all her money and get clean and then the state would give her her kids back. She didn't know where they were but she had two crumpled up photos that sat on her bed. Her bed being a plywood shelf with hair grease, a comb, and these two crumpled up abandoned kids. I knew she'd never get clean and hoped she wouldn't find her kids. I wasn't even sure how long we'd last dancing with self-destruction. Some people had prom. We had Hard Times.

The Stars Begin to Fall

I still can't get over that picture I took of the plane's wing. It's so beautiful. That was when I flew out to see Richie, a boy I didn't know, but knew better than those I've known. Our brains worked similarly. We both point out odd combinations of numbers from times to license plates. The kind of number combination that wouldn't be obvious like 06/12 3:24. My brain would see the 6th month being half of the date and the time 3x2= 6 (the month) 6x4=24 divided by the 2 that double the month is 12. Nonsense? Maybe. But I had a crazy math partner in crime.

I had so much fun on that trip I had hope for life. I love to travel. I felt like the future held opportunity and I developed a connection.

Today, has been a harsh day. I'm still trying to figure out where I'm supposed to be in life. For the past few years I've been having to react to terrible situations that I've ended up in. I do believe that we are in charge of our lives but I also KNOW that certain unstoppable things happen. No matter how kind hearted and hard working some people are there are so many lazy, spoiled people out there living amazing lives while the others die in poverty.

It sounds depressing but there is no denying that. I don't believe I can't succeed. I do believe I can succeed. Doing anything for myself has been on the back burner. This year has been unintentional mishaps, coincidences, and all kinds of awesomeness that hasn't exactly been in my favor.

10:34 am

Inspired by my little brother's pg-rated blogging. I thought that I also should pursue an outlet in which I felt comfortable enough to write where other people could read my rambles. In a way I feel it's narcissistic to talk aimlessly about oneself yet I also feel it's empowering to be able to express your thoughts without hiding them in the shadows of secrecy.

My writing, my thoughts, and my unabashed penchant for saying what's on my mind tends to get me in trouble. I've been working on a little thing called, "tact." which I've noticed alcohol seems to completely abolish and I begin harassing strangers for being total douchebags.

Is this appropriate? Yes. Is it necessary for a total lamewad to have someone explain to them, in detail, why they should climb back into the worn out hole that is their mother's vagina so that she can abort them and save me from their terrible existence? Possibly.

It's 10:34 am and I'm barely functional after drinking till sunrise and watching one of my favorite movies, Metropolis. Incredibly prophetic, creepy, and amazing. Be sure to view it if you haven't. I ended up drunkenly giving Manee my Mystery Science Theater version in which pretty much everyone said in crappy German accents, "Dude, I'm totally gay and retarded."
I was, of course, referring to Gays and Retards in a derogatory sense and it never seems to get old.

The words, gay and retarded are like the farts of my vocabulary, totally inappropriate, always hilarious, and a necessary release from the shit that has backed up my mind hole.

Due to my chronic insomnia I've perused the internet and stumbled upon some rad current events:

Mexican Donkey Jailed for Ornery Behavior

Lost Parrot Tells Veterinarian his Address

What's rad about both of these stories is that they recount the actions of authorities from around the world. In Japan, the cops rescue parrots. In Mexico, they jail donkeys. In the United States, cops rescue white people and jail everyone else.

If anyone can find me a picture of a jailed donkey or recreate one. I will be forever grateful and begin work on my back piece dedicated to this atrocity.