TheGameCat
Mild Curiosity
Registered: Sep 2000
Location: New York City
Posts: 333 |
It's 7:30 on a friday, and I'm left here, wondering about myslef and this strange journey we call life. I'm drunk, I admit it. I drank from 5:00 till now as if they weren't making booze at St. James anymore. The bartendress at my local pub reminds me of an older sister, if i had ever had one, she's still got an accent left over from the island, a residue from fond memories of galway bay. Sometimes I wish I weren't alone, but I wonder if I'd ever be the same. I doubt it. Adversity forces the self to grow, both physcially and mentally. Stagnacny breeds mediocrity.
The windows to my apartment are open, and they cast a beautiful dying light throughout the room. Afterall, its daylight savings time. The room appears enchanted. I know its not, unfortunately intellect forces me to review my artistic side from an analytic perspective. I realize that I'm out of control. Since its easter on sunday, I can't drink the La Feit Rothechild I've bought for Easter Dinner. A friend invited me over, and I hate to disappoint, others at least. So I am forced to fill a glass of orange juice for the stoli I have left over for company. I've called some friends of mine twice already about going out. I know they're not home, but jekyl is looking for control from hyde, and I can't stand to stay in tonight, the animal wants out of the cage, the child in the back of my mind fears for myself on nights like tonight. I know its not a good idea, but something in me says to go away... forget myself and responsibilty. A sip away from myself... Who recognizes themself in the mirror anymore anyway? I haven't for sometime. A shattered mirror, a myriad of myselves, lost and looking for themselves...
I don't want you to think that I'm writing this for you bunch of pauper intellectuals, power madened by your own shortsighted dreams of insightfulness. I'm not. I'm writing this to myself, hopefully I'll read it tomorrow, after I've returned to a state of sobriety, and wonder, about myself and why I insist on becoming someone else. But fill one hand with hope and the other with shit, and watch which one fills faster. Life is inherently hopeless, contrary to what britney and the backstreet boys tell you. But what seperates them from us, rather me. Not much. The same lifespan, equally as meaningless.
Games amaze me. I can't understand how the human intellect (historically speaking) developed the idea of 'winning.' Winning seems absolutely irrelevant to me, partly because I realize that a bum and banker suffer the same fate at the end of the game. They don't make coffins for you to take it with you. In fact, they don't make coffins to take you. That's it, worm food.
Where does this life lead? Intellect tells me to oblivion. Death, I've almost died. It sounds romantic, but its really not. A moment, fronzen, you're here. And the next, then that's it. 'No money, no fancy dress, this other life seems by far the best. Until its other jaw reveals incest, and a loose obidience to a vegetable law.' Maybe, but I doubt it.
It's dark, an appropriate time to end this post, a post that in all probability I wiill be the only one to read. It's alrite. I only wrote it for myself anyway. The fact that theere are as few people who understand me as in life does not surprise me. Consider this post a brief interlude to the penis-pussy talk that proliferates this place. I love alliteration, so gowantfuckyourself.
I'm going to wreak some havok, go fuckyer muther.
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The one, the only,
TheGameCat
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04-04-2001 12:26 AM
