Nonanimate

I'm afraid to write down what I feel for fear of the monster that will look back up at me.

switch up at birth.

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well...the kitchen didn't light itself on fire.

Trying to write on prescription drugs is like trying to beat yourself to death with an inflatable hammer. Everything is soft, watery.

reassurance in a digital age.

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the stupidest thing that I've ever said out loud. pt. 1

"It's gonna take a tidal wave full of great white sharks that know karate to take me from this world."

Tonight I drew a schematic that in great detail shows plans on how to pull the sky down.

It's funny,

I'm trying to drink till I'm inspired. This formula can go either way, I could write the next Gatsby but the spelling and handwriting would be so far shit that it'd be buried in a mountain of gibberish. What's the secret though? How do you become something bigger than yourself? That I want that power or responsibility makes me sick. Can I write a clever phrase, yes. Can I inspire and make even one person rethink their ideals, I doubt it. It's my own damn fault though. I need to take this life I was given more seriously, but sometimes I feel like when they were passing out the keys to success I was too busy daydreaming about what's past the blue in the sky. I'm a victim of my own overactive imagination, a prisoner of a brain that is a maze with no exit. To this day I still lay awake before bed and daydream of a life less ordinary, and extraordinary existence where the sky is the limit. It seems childish and foolish but fuck you, don't worry about what is going on in my psyche, you're not invited. I want to be remembered. I want to change the world. I just want to know that I left a mark in this crazy fucked up existence.

I just want to be remembered.

memoirs of a drunken degenerate.

i woke up this morning wracked with aches and pains, a body broken by a long night of whiskey chased by beer, a precursor to an evening filled with delusions of grandeur. "you've outdone yourself this time old boy" i think to myself as i fumble for the bottle of ibuprofen i keep on the nightstand. it goes down with a mighty gulp of water that only ends because of the human anatomy's need for air. its light out. i try to shake away the fog from my vision that is an unfortunate side effect of a night like last. no good, i try a thorough rubbing, still not 20/20 but it does the trick. i squint through the single pain glass of my window and see hell. the sky is the color of misery, cold wet merciless misery. without setting shaky unsure foot outside i can see that there is a bitter foul bite to this vile november morning. this has to be an omen, a sign of horrible things to come. ill read through the paper and exclaim "i knew it, the bastards didn't believe me but i knew it." but this is all crazy talk. the ramblings of a man gone half mad coming down from a vicious whiskey high. for now ill put down pen and attempt to sleep it off, hopefully wake up to a safer hue.