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.

pages numbered are days numbered.

when do we learn?

i demand an answer.

im 31 years old and i have myself figured out but not those around me. i know me and only me. i know what makes me feel better and when there is no way to feel better i know to shut myself out from the rest of the world for fear that the sickness will spread, i know that im afraid of certain things that others search their whole life to attain and hold on to and i know that i have a problem with letting go. my mom says i care too much but most of my significant others would argue that point. sometimes i feel like i got it all together and sometimes i don't. chapters open and then they close and then new chapters start again. ive decided to boycott these chapters, to destroy the book. i wanna tear the pages out, curse at them and then light them on fire, i just wish i could think of something destructive to do to the ashes. i love this book but i want to set it ablaze. be less predictable, make new friends, learn a new language. i want to start over.

screw the book
screw the characters
and
screw the readers.