What it all comes down to…

It all comes down to me being tired of shit. At the time of this writing, shit = mediocre days.

The poem that instills the most hope in me is “Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note.”

Today, I realized I was on the LIRR without a ticket. I nearly escaped the ticket collector by hopping off the train two stops early. I then bought a ticket and had to wait for 20 minutes. Needless to say, the ticket collector didn’t come by the second time.
Could I have made it all the way home?

I was having a shitty day. Then someone said something nice, and everything was better. So, return the favour for me and check out her website- click. Her name is Sarah- she puts the rock n roll in Philly. Trust me, look hard enough, “rock n roll” is in “Philadelphia.”

I could definitely pull off those red cowboy boots (if you understand the reference, kudos).

I read somewhere that people who say On the Road is their favourite book will probably cheat on their significant others. I disagree. It never instilled thoughts of adultery in me. It instilled a hatred of the stationary life.

I think the most romantic poem is The City in Which I Loved You by Li-Young Lee. So, suck it, Neruda- I only like you when you’re writing about bombs.

I think comparing something to a bomb is my favourite simile/metaphor.

In my head, my thoughts are narrated by Humphrey Bogart- complete with cool hand movements. Even the ear tugging like he does in The Big Sleep.
By the way, what is with the ear tugging?

So it all comes down to, yet again, me being tired of shit. Judging my life by train time tables, constant nights of “I need to wake up in 4 hours, I guess that means I should stop reading” and in the mornings “I slept great. That means I didn’t have a nightmare”

Is someone else living the life I’m supposed to?

Is this truly une saison en Enfer?

This is not my beautiful wife. This is not my beautiful car.

What have I done? How did I get here?


About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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