I've had a lot of time to think to myself in this recently abandoned room that I have now relocated to for the time being.
You know, it's not that I actually hate a lot of people. Just a few. Not really hate; just really dislike. And, it's not my dislike that leads me to distrust almost everyone on the face of the planet. It's just actuality, it's just life. I just don't really trust anyone. I mean my dad, my mom, my brother; other family members. Sometimes. But I mean, how can we hold people to a complete 100 percent, glass always full amount of trust? Do you trust yourself that much? Probably not. I know that when I have a few drinks, I can't ever trust myself to stop, ever. I also know that when I have a few drinks, I can't really trust myself to behave, ever. Even when I'm sober, lying in bed, thinking of all these random things, I can't even trust myself to believe that these are the things I am actually thinking, and that these things are actually true, and that these thoughts are actually my beliefs, and that my beliefs are actually how I feel, and that how I feel is 100% never going to change because damnit, it's how I feel. Was that a run on sentence? Have I ever mentioned that at one time, I was so set on becoming a writer? That on the day I graduated I brought my old laptop outside and guarded it from the sun as my aunt read some of my things and reassured me that I could become a better, and always was a good writer? And every day a little part of me regrets not trying hard enough, and not putting enough of my untrustworthy thoughts on paper, or screen, or unpublished-but-saved blog. I regret, a little bit, that my sentence fragments haven't turned into a novel that is worth a Noble Prize or at least Bukowskiism. Every day I tell myself that tomorrow will be the day I take the time to start writing something, but tomorrow always ends up never coming- or being 11:30 at night leaving very little tomorrow left because today is thirty minutes away.
Ah! An idea! I think, maybe if I start smoking weed again, time will go by ever so slowly that there will, in fact, be enough hours in the day for me to complete at least one of the many beginnings of ridiculous short stories that are saved on drafts living in two separate rooms. Then I remember how boring smoking weed is, and how it smells like that dead skunk you just passed at the beginning of a long road trip- and we're back to how I cannot even trust myself with my own thoughts. Here. Alone. Just me, telling myself lies. Or are they? Was it skunk that it smells like? And the beginning of a road trip, or the middle, or the end?
Once upon a time, for like a second, I wanted to be an English teacher. Then I remembered that I don't really like high schoolers. Or I didn't, when I was there. Now, I love hanging out with my brother's ex girlfriend/girlfriend because it makes me feel like I'm in high school again. Giggling and gossiping and those really intense, dramatic rumours. Those are the best. I also remembered that my grammar isn't the best and that I adore the shit out. Of. Rapid. Sentence. Fragments. So. Intense. Seriously, who makes the rules? When you write your own shit, you fucking do! That's who. I meant to put "Me and Johnny went to the store," because me and Johnny did.
Anyway, I need some medicinal marijuana so I can sleep or something. In fifteen minutes today starts, and today is the day that you can never get used to anything and that just maybe I will write something good. Something well. Something brilliant. Bitchin'. Radical. Stellar. Gnar.
Maybe I can start with something that I don't really trust or believe is very good.
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