On the utmost verge of necessity, do you ever dive into the dense clouds of irresponsibility? Tonight, that should be my motto. I’m doing it all wrong. I’m attempting to mark off the checklist of requirements backwards, with the not-so-subtle aid of a six pack. What is with this relatively mild ethanol deluge, heightening every song on a gifted mixtrack? It was the physical event of receiving said music that inspired such slackerhood. Such a break from routine. Such a relief.
Because when the days aren’t condemned to march in meticulous array, I can marvel at their novelty. Because when I have adventurous events on the near horizon, I can crack an honest smile, and the dripping tears of joy wont be the mere result of chemical stimuli.
Dear God, when did my weeks become so regimented? When did limbs become entwined in the sticky spider web of yuppie consumerism? Ah yes, when I graduated, and entered the workplace, and signed my bona fide signature on the dotted line of modernity.
Alas, my escape is both chemical and audile, abstract notations on paper, yet arch-mages of gray matter. I’m rapt in slavering emotion. B.F. Skinner would be fawning; I could be a pristine Ivy League doctorate case study.
But this is all metaphor, the realm of literature. Nothing matters but the rubber that contacts the road, and in doing so, leaves a part of itself as testament to the resultant heat. I am obtuse, stubborn, and fucking drunk. Jesus Christ.
Regardless, I’ll survive. My heart will continue to squeeze chunky blood through those vital pathways, and my devious brain might as well be grateful. The truth is, I could write circular bloggish bullshit like this all night. Especially with a soundtrack good enough to slay your siblings, parents and ancestors. But I will abstain.
In truth, these words mean nothing. They live on a computer, in ASCII code, and were randomly generated by the jittery energy that my drunken brain couldn’t match to a worthwhile task. Stop reading now, goddammit, stop reading now.