here is me and here is you, you are laughing

Here is a bowl of complete shit, please take it. I eat it cold but you can eat it however you want.

There is something I have been meaning to tell you: don’t forget how important I am, let me talk on my cell phone a lot for no reason other than to have something to do so I don’t feel alone.

Salutations

Hey
Hey
What’s up?
Nothing, you?
Nothing.
Cool.

Doing things like this so I don’t have to do real things: JOIN NOW!!

Man, I heard so many good reasons to join the Army Reserve on the radio today, apparently I am going to be a real hero saving little babies and shit.

At work, there are two reasons to go: one: money, and two: also money. And also I’ve been there long enough to get paid time off.

Reasons you should not go crazy:
Sanity is fun sometimes.
Uh, that’s pretty much it.

I peed my pants in first grade. I remember it very vividly. I was reading something, or, acting like I was reading something cause I had just peed my pants. I remember thinking that if it had been fluoride day I could have spilled it on me and then asked to go wash up. But it wasn’t fluoride day. Two students came over to me, it was free time or something I think, they asked why my pants were wet and I acted like I didn’t know. They were sweat pants, light blue. They weren’t mean about it I remember, more sympathetic. I told Miss Hogue, she sent me to the nurse. I walked in and said, “I peed my pants” and she said “What? You had an accident?” and I said “yeah”, thinking of how I should have said ‘accident’ not ‘peed my pants’. She gave me pink corduroy pants to wear. When I waited outside for my Mom, I covered my pants with my backpack, trying to conceal the new pants. I walked to the car that way, and inside the car I sat on the floor board of the front seat with my backpack on my pants. When we got home, I ran inside, changed into a similar pair of sweatpants, and hid the pink corduroy pants in a bag under the bathroom sink. And never told anyone. Until I was a teenager, and I still think my family sort of doesn’t believe me. But that’s only cause I did such a good job of concealing it.

Things that happen everyday: hunger. death. Stupidity. Self doubt. Mail, well except Sundays and government holidays.

A poem with significant improvement:

Once there was a boy
He loved a girl, oh joy, oh joy!!
And when she pranced at night alone
He kept on text messaging her phone

Denied by love he wept for eternities
Rejecting his bids into a dozen fraternizes
Appalled, bespoken, ravished, defeat
The girl didn’t attend his regional track meet

The anger fell upon a silk wood sorrow
Bed ridden in a Forrest of a real life horror
Engulfed in consumption of a fat sack
If only that bitch would have called him back.

Dsfsdddddddddddddkeystypingkeystypingcanyouhearitcanyouhearittappingtappingllaksjalsknodjosjdbofsgbn

Beerbeerbeerbearborrowbarneysbarkingbutterbambeybellsbuschottiebruschettabreeanna

I am a long squiggly green line under every word I hear. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah you want to hear about how my friend’s friend is dating this guy who used to be on meth and is, like, a total asshole to her… say the people at work.

Yes I do because I care. Because I am your friend, and I care.

Not.
At all, even a little.

But instead I say

Wow
That’s crazy.

Alone, alone on a Saturday night. Is a country song. That I could sing right now, cause maybe I relate.

Went to First Friday last night. Streets of art galleries and live bands. People have their noses up and wear a lot of make-up. Some of the art is ammmmmmmazing, like, whoa, nice, fucking beautiful and speaking and engaging and profound and oh man way better than anything I could do and that’s… discouraging.

Oh art, how I long to nestle up onto your bosom.

Noises, noises all around, but not a face to see.