Yet again, I am drunk. If you don't heed the warning, then I have no sympathy. Just saying.Submitted by DaBeast at 2010-12-24 05:30:50 EST
Rating: 0.7 on 25 ratings (25 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
I'm drunk on Wild Turkey 101. It's good bourbon. I like it. Smooth. Not as smooth as Rare Breed or some Chivas 21 but still... smooth. I like it. Did I say that already? Hell, I dunno. Nor do I care. I shall strive to communicate in this fashion but, if I fail, blame Wild Turkey and Kentucky. It's all their fault.
I keep backspacing. I dunno why. You're all lame lackwit mutherfux. Why should I care if you can read what I'm writing? Again, I dunno. So, whuteva. Don't care. IF there's misspellings, ain't my fault. Blame Kenfucky. It's their fault.
Chicks bug me. They act as if they have brains yet nothing exists beyond their own sense of self indulgence. If it isn't about them, then they dunno about it. Yeah, yeah, their shoes, their asses, their lips, their tits... whuteva. It's all "me, me, ME!" and I'm supposed to give a rat's ass? Well, princess, I not only don't give a rat's ass, I couldn't care less if I was paid to do so, so why'ntcha jiggle yer tits at me until I either give a damn or I don't? I got $5 says that I don't, no matter whut yer tits look like. Tits are free. after all. Just google 'tits' and find out for yerself. You'll see. Tits is free. My indulgence is not.
How's 'bout these asinine arseholes that think I give a damn about them just 'cause they got 'testes? Yeah, yer a guy. Ya like football, an' ya like Hooters, an' ya like rumshakn', an' ya like some of what I like. I give a damn why, again? Get a damned original viewpoint or I got no use for ya. Quit yer copycatting antics and I might pay attention. Until then, get the fuck on. I got no time for the likes of ya'.
I know the meaning of life. It's simple and complex, all at once. The meaning has to do with others. One other, in particular. It's all about your other. When that other means more to you than anything else. When your other comes before even yourself. When it's not all about you but it's all about them. When you place yourself last because you simply are not able to put your own selfishness at the forefront. It's more than being willing to take a bullet for someone else. You would take their pain unto yourself, you would leech all the bad from their lives and withstand it for them... you would put your soul in front of their pain... you would give everything that you were, all that you are to keep pain from ever even entering their lives... yes. There's the meaning. They are the meaning. I am irrelevant and they are not. Not to me. I would bleed, would sell my soul, would die to keep any and all pain from them. They are the meaning.
I get it, now.
'I don't mind spending every day out on your corner in the pouring rain..." Yes. So simple. Everything else is selfish, isn't it? Everything else is cheap and irrelevant. I want to throw a cloak over muddy puddles so that she can walk across them without soiling her shoes. I want to take her hand and lead her, safely, across the intersection. I want to enfold her within my embrace and protect her from every harm, no matter how small or insignificant.
I can feel the gooey things. The syrupy, sweet, saccharine icky things. They're there, a glop of goo that swishes around in my innards like old chop suey. But the bitter, acidic, jagged-edge bite of reality holds it in check, most of the time. Constantly, the poet wars with the pirate. I would render rhyme and verse upon thee that deserved it but, oh!, you make the pirate within me rave and spew! It isn't all about you, you silly bitch! Pay attention! FUCK!
I hear it, I hear it! I dream of rain. I dream of gardens in the desert sand. I wake in vain. I dream of love as time runs through my hands. Damn you, damn you! You bitch! There is a poet trapped within me and you bring him to the surface, only to drub him in the dirt when you see his face! Your love is ashes in my mouth and sand in my fingers and I can not hold it, I can not trap it, I can not keep it, for it runs from me as quickly as I try to contain it! Damn you! It is quicksilver and I am entirely too slow and I cry and I quiver and I can not stop trying even as I see it slipping away.
Time is mine enemy and it slides away no matter what I do. Send me a sign. Turn back the clock. Give me some time. Something! Damn it.
I'm drunk... and I'm maudlin... and I'm misspelling entirely too much... and not a damned one of you misbgotten whoresons will understand any of this and you'll -2 die all of it without a second thought because you[ve never known something even remotely like this... when your everything is no longer yours but it's all hers because you gave it to her and you didn't even know you did it but when you realized it, you didn't care that you'd done it because even if she does wrong with your soul, then it's right because she did it... and that's all that matters. Everything else is irrelevant...
I am lost. Damn it, no. I am found. And it will be the end of me, I just know it.
Oh, yeah - fuck you, too.