i spend 3 minutes adjusting the temperature for my shower. i spend 14 minutes getting ready in the morning. i spend 27 minutes going to work. i spend approximately 20 minutes talking to automated services before reaching an operator every month. i spend 8 minutes sorting my laundry. i spend weeks preparing my taxes. i spend 7 minutes thinking about what to eat for lunch and dinner. i spend days worrying about my hair. my love life. the future. i spend 26 minutes coming from work. i spend 2 hours playing video games; 6 on the weekend. i spend weeks looking at products i’ll never buy and never need. i spend 2 hours watching pornography; 6 on the weekend. i spend years in idle conversations with people i won’t remember who won’t remember me. i spend months putting off writing, calling, getting back to friends. i spend 2 hours every month admiring my own tumblr page. i spend 2 hours every day stalking other people’s facebook pages. i spent 1 hour 29 minutes and 48 seconds writing this and i’ll spend a lifetime merely re-reading it.
sorry #1 & sorry #2 & sorry #3 & sorry #4 & sorry #5 & sorry #6
i’m co-penning a new book with a great new writer, dick darren, and we’re going to title the book “100 ways to say i’m sorry”. we only need 94 more. maybe we should change the title…
today a co-worker introduced me, to a fellow new co-worker, as the “resident bohemian”. i’m not sure that i’m bohemian enough to be bohemian. i’m certainly not czech enough. i don’t live in a yurt. i don’t wear one of those wrap shirts made from one continuous piece of fabric. my hair is short crop and most of my clothes come from some brand name store. i’m not sure if that makes me a poser or a conformist confused about my condition. however, his comment made me want to embrace my bohemian self today. no. not like that, dirty pervs. well. maybe like that. it made me want to explore my world. my poetry. my universe. myself. no. not like that, dirty-dirty pervs. i walked around the office in a pensive manner. i looked up the price of yurts. i joined http://www.couchsurfing.org/. i honestly felt my hair grow at least one centimeter longer today. i also wrote this:
death to the bohemian…
who shops at walmart not local.
death to the bohemian…
who loses his focal. point. falling out of love like running out of time.
death to the bohemian…
who blogs about the crisis of his limited world and ignorant mind.
death to the bohemian…
who concerns himself with material designs and superficial realms.
death to the bohemian…
who bleeds red, white, and green for money. it’s too much. overwhelmed.
death to the bohemian. death.
death to the bohemian because the bohemian is dead.
yeah…my co-workers don’t know me at all.
yesterday(or maybe not). i looked up from my ps3, for a second, to inhale a bit of reality. i took a gander at my apartment. my stuff. the things around me. it seemed quite suddenly that i got somewhere without realizing. i made my bed, shampooed my head, and vacuumed. i stocked my refrigerator, bought a cheese grater, and used conditioner. i arranged all my rooms. i framed all my art. i brushed all my teeth. i biked to work. i paid my rent. i fixed myself something to eat. i watched the news. i talked about the news. i worked for the news. i owned enough clothing to fill two closets. i had a foot scrubber suction sealed to my shower floor. i threw it away. i bought another one. i lived in reno so far away from anything i knew; desperately alone struggling to find comfort. i even owned curtains. well, i didn’t technically buy those. i inherited those from an ex-girlfriend. but. as i looked around, for a second. i wondered how i got to today. or yesterday. it was afternoon(or maybe not). i thought. i tried to recall what got me to that moment. to that day. i couldn’t. i moved 2,000 miles and bought 2,000 more miles in stuff, but i couldn’t. i couldn’t understand my own life. me. i looked back to my ps3.
that guy or girl who draws fanfare from their larger than life personality based on unfounded philosophies or preferences brandished in outmoded styles, genres, whatever. they magnetize fields of attention merely perpetuated by their ugly concern for the lime light opposed to their actual benefit to society, the whole, whatever. single minded fiends dragging good people through their maze of futility, triviality, whatever. they are the hogs of humanity draining civilized order by becoming idols to parasitic laggards and the unwitting regurgitating unusable and unoriginal thoughts into a system of continuous failure, demise, whatever. yeah. that guy. that girl. they bum me out.
whatever.
my cramped romantic gestures die in the dark retarded by the fear of my inadequacies. i don’t know how to act my age and i don’t know what you want. i’m trying too hard to speak. i’m trying too hard to listen. my thoughts don’t care like they normally do. it’s broken. i’m joking. i mean, no i’m not. my words are trying too hard. the words don’t come out like they should when i’m with you. around. i’m dieing too hard. i suppose. i’m trying too hard. maybe. it’s the forced edge of love’s left side. i’m missing the rite. right. i’m too ceremonial for the present. too traditional. too grade school. too me. i’m. i am. nervous. afraid. to say…speak. what i think. spoken. thought. i wish i knew how to say what i think i thought i said before i was too nervous to say what i now know is not coming out right. rite. it’s not me. it’s my mouth. your mouth. can we kiss?
