Some days life sucks because it doesn’t not suck.
It doesn’t suck for everyone, just those of us who feel like it does.
Life sucks for other people on other days.
It seems that some days I can’t avoid insulting someone, offending them or just plane pissing them off (often unintentionally). On some of those days when I realize I pissed them off and they let me know it, I feel compelled to piss them off even more.
There are days when I hate everyone who is doing better than me at their occupation and that probably includes a little more than half the people in the world.
But I just remember what capitalism teaches us: Other people are simply obstacles to what we want in life. What will I do when the revolution comes and I have to act like a human being again?
There are days when I’m tempted to see if there’s any good meds in our medicine cabinet I forgot that my doctor gave me a long time ago.
Forget the hydrocodone I got from my car crash last year. I used it up long ago.
When I write I have a muse. It’s a black hole nearby in space. It sucks everything out of me until there’s nothing left but a compulsion to write. I write even if it’s crap nobody will read.
Sometimes it’s earth breaking news/ other times it’s crap.
But I love writing crap. Sometimes writing crap is the only thing that takes the edge off of a sucks day.
Some days I feel like I’m the only sane person left in a world full of fucked up crack pots. It’s lonely at the top, especially when you’re a legend in your own mind. Too bad I can’t get the legend out of my mind.
I don’t know if this is a poem, an essay or a fucking rant. Who gives a fuck anyway?
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