It is my intention to convince you that you’re not as bad ass as you think you are.
Today I woke up the same way I wake up every day. “What day is it?” I asked myself. Well, it’s more like,”Fuck, do I have to go to work today?” To tell you the truth, it kinda makes me feel like a computer. It’s like, as soon as I boot up (wake up), my brain starts running this routine, progressing through a nigh-hardware-embedded flowchart of “if/else” statements. Is today the weekend? If else, today is a weekday. If today is a weekday, then do I have work today? Yes. Go to curse existence.
Thanks microcosmic gears of fate, you’ve turned me into a cynical automaton.
10 years ago, when I was 17, I would have never guessed that I’d be brokeass, sitting at a coffee house in Long Beach bitching about my whack job.
17-year-old me had misappropriated dreams of becoming a doctor. I would have been finishing up my last quarter of medical school right about now.
Somehow, though, I can’t help but think that it’s for the better. It is because of my strayed-off-the-beaten-path, meandering course that I’ve found and truly embraced my anti-drug that is the stage.
Actually, maybe the stage is my actual drug.
It’s not so bad. It’s relatively free. But the highs aren’t quite as consistent.
Anyway, world, you tried to throw me for a loop. You had me headed toward my own personal oblivion. And holy shit did I go with it. Holy shit, I’m still going with it.
What you didn’t count on, though, is that sooner or later, I’d realize the end was in sight. All I gotta do is keep trudging on.
Kiss my ass,