For Life.

I sat in the sun today and drank several vodka lemonades. Being drunk worked well for Hemingway and Fitzgerald and many others but all it makes me want to do is lay down in the grass with my soulmate and talk about the meaning of life which sounds pretty stupid in all actuality. Besides, I don't have a soulmate but I do have a dog and he is almost better because he doesn't tell me I'm wrong and he really appreciates it when I rub his stomach. T h i n k i n g of calling someone I shouldn't call because he is probably about 3.7 miles away from the very place I am sitting right now and I need rescuing. But it wouldn't be worth it because in a few days I'd be flooded by guilt and regret and realize all the things he said to me weren't really true, he just knows what to say to get what he wants. And I have to give him credit for that, for figuring me out and seeing through it all. But I have to hate him for taking advantage of that knowledge, for twisting the knife a little bit more. That's fucked up. How do kids in the suburbs get so messed up? It's the illusion of paradise, the expectation, no the requirement, of greatness, the unacknowledged shortcomings. The ignorance, the banality. It's killing us all. Slowly, softly, deeply. And that is fine for the rest of you all.