Thursday, June 11, 2009

XIII. Mean, Dirty Shoes

Got a new laptop. It's bright and clean. It plays Bjork live songs quite nicely.

Why am I so fucking angry all the time? Everything sucks and stuff! I mean, money...hard to hold onto,, soooo hard! And bills, gotta be paid...stupid groceries. Ugh. There's fat in the air, MAN! I'm clogging my arteries just by walking out the front door. Dumb shit, dumb.

But no, really. I hold on tight to this opportunity to unleash fucking fury like bad molasses into a brand new garbage disposal. This opportunity, sitting comfy on my face, at 34. I want to stay angry at the hypocrisy of people. Men and women of many genders out there are told they are undeserving of the love they feel. Not allowed to proclaim the truest thing they could ever feel. Not in the way my parents could. Much less, vastly undeserving. Por Dios. We graduated from pre-school many moons ago. Why do we still live in that same pre-school? Bad posture, unnecessary sweating. Make room for the little ones, Pergamino!

At the risk of reducing myself to that beret-headed buffoon with the megaphone in one hand and a blank book in the other, I want to pick a fight. I want to drag people who are down with people (bad down) to the underneath of my car, with velocity and as little remorse as humanly possible. I want to not be nice to mean people and, in turn, become super mean. I want to lose focus and lash out at everyfuckingbody, allthefuckingtime. I want to swallow my life up in a fiendish appetite of pure hatred. For to tell them all I lived passionate and true. To tell them I became Che Guevara with a Mohammad complex. He wasn't a smart one, but he went loud.



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