| The
Institute | |||
Dr Pickles Ronnie Smith Shit Poems |
Dumb blog:
Oddly after talking to someone last evening I think I have come to the terms that nothing will ever be easy in my life. I spend a lot of it on the outside looking in. It's not terrible in the least and not filled with dread like past encounters. I've always seen disaster coming but kindly waited them out for some strange reason. I've took it on the chin many a time grasping onto to wishful thinking, when you boil it all down we are quick to take the fool's road when love could be involved. If you are lucky to encounter one person who's mere presence can make the confusion tolerable, I imagine you begin to start protecting every thought, every word until you build a sanctuary around it. Like I said it is never easy, I spend most of my time waiting for circumstances to evolve. Circumstances that are as vague as this post. The bottom line is the scene inside has finally seen the face looking inward all these years and in time may even open the door for me to come inside and stay... The new workplace isn't bad, the new place is still fun and it seems like I have nothing to bitch about. It's Memorial Day, so mental note. Waiting for collapse. I hate people who look over and then whisper to their friends. It's usually some girl, a very unattractive one at that. You give them an axe murdering stare and, they keep whispering. Fucking bitch... I was trying to imagine my 20's and I have no idea what was going through my mind except when the next encounter with a beer can was. It's odd how you twist yourself in petty pursuits of escaping being rational. You want to get perverted, illiterate and brave. Odd fascinations of urinating on private property and sleeping underneath various pieces of furniture made my evening. I would awake in a room of strangers in houses I had no idea in arriving at. The bad thing is when these new strange people are talking to you as if they knew you all their lives. You try and mutter a few words and they laugh and smile. In some time that prior evening you gave them something to embrace, even though you have no fucking clue who they are. They invite you back, show you a glimpse into their worlds in hopes of instilling a friendship with you, just for the fact that you were spitting insane drunken ramblings on some embarrassing moment of your life, that luckily you were too drunk to remember. Can't remember a name, just a face and the event itself that led to this psuedo friendship. Getting in a fist fight with their ironing board was what I was told. You awaken amongst a prism of grass stains, briars and on frightening occasions with an odd taste of body secretions in your mouth. At least that is what the rumor was. And in finality you can't place if the timeperiod is a high or a lowpoint. It gets muddled in hindsight and in some small thoughts missed...
Retiring that last page has made my
day. Utter garbage an mean intentions. I can't say anything nice these
days. I'm wretched. |
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