“If you get the chance to, wipe that glare off your face. French kiss my fingerprints and heave it in an alleyway. Defenseless yet so violent princess of divine, your ugliness arrived on time. And I know I never was beautiful enough for you. The scars on my back turn my fingers blue.”
This is just one of those times when I have nothing to say. Not just about the song, or the lyrics, but just about anything. I slept for 14 hours last night after spending 32 and a half of the previous 37 hours awake. My mind doesn’t feel very recovered. I still feel tired. I want to crawl back into bed and sleep, and dream, and be warm, and have my hands in my pants without anyone shaming me – when I try to sleep and it’s either cold or I’m really sad I often sleep on my stomach with my arms stretched beside me and my hands directly under my pelvis, also known as the place where my penis is located. I guess I do this when I’m cold to warm myself up. I guess I do it when I’m sad so I can take up as little space as possible – I’d like not to go back to bed though. I want to try this thing I’ve heard that other people do. I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, but supposedly it’s called being productive. Sounds crazy I know, but I’ll give it the old college try.
I say ‘the old college try’ quite possibly more than anybody else in my age group, which isn’t hard because I only have to say it once every year. I remember my favorite time ever saying it. My friend and I were talking about me continually dropping out of community college and then I mentioned how I might go back and give it one more old college try. At the time it was funnier than it sounds after writing it out.
“And there are reasons why I forfeit that nightly mess. Numbing my hands down that evening dress. My daydreams love the violet color of your lips. And the nightmares that accompany it.”
I don’t know if I’m ever going to give community college the old college try ever again. I honestly don’t think I’m cut out for college. Even community college, which basically is glorified high school without the glorified part. I just went and checked my MyPCC account, which is my community college account, and I’ve got 72 credits with a GPA of 2.85, which I think it’s pretty darn good considering it includes two F’s, an NP and a W, whatever the hell that means (withdrawal).
I wish there was a way I could donate my transcript to somebody. You know, some guy (or girl) with a decent GPA like me, but would never get through community college by himself (or herself) but with the help of my credits could get some kind of degree, of course nothing of any use, but still good enough to put them at the head of the waiting list to get a job at Taco Bell.
“I don’t plan on you tonight, so just shut off the lights…like you wanted to.”
I have to get a job pretty soon. I mean technically I don’t. My mother is far too nice and my step-father is far too pussy-whipped to ever kick me out of this house or make me get a job or make me do anything that might be good for my life. I don’t necessarily think kicking a person out would be good, but it’d be nice to nudge them towards getting a job so one day they could move out. I don’t place any blame on my parents for me having accomplished exactly nothing in my life. Well I blame my biological sperm donor (i.e. father) for not being in my life, because had he been here I’d at least probably know how to drive and have impregnated a few girls by now. But in seriousness even though my mother could have possibly been more motivating I place the blame entirely on me…and God of course.
My mother would like me to go back to college. She tells me it has nothing to do with her wanting me to graduate from a college, which not many members, if any, from my family have done. I think it’s bullshit. I think she would love nothing more than to tell everyone about how her son graduated from college. How dare her try to be proud of me! I no longer have any desire to be a stand up comedian, nor did I ever have any desire except for about two weeks back in high school, but there was something appealing about trying to make a living and possibly gain fame with something where my mother would have to beat around the bush with her friends trying to explain my career to them without revealing my staple act being masturbation humor.
Don’t get me wrong, I would like my mother to be proud of me, but I’d like her to be proud of me for what I want to do. At this point my mind makes me imagine Hitler having a conversation with his mother: “But mom I’ve been behind the deaths of more than 6 million Jews. I was Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 1938. What more could you ask of me?” And Hitler’s mom replies, “How about bringing home a sweet girl who could give me grandchildren?” Hitler says, “Mother, we’ve been over this. I’m a screaming homosexual.”