Ain't It Just Like The Night

People seen in the waiting room:

She sobs uncontrollably into her can of BBQ Pringles as he yells from upstairs to be quiet. His big hulk of a frame has beat her senseless physically and emotionally enough times now that she has almost had enough. I wish I had married Tommy instead. He looked like Magnum P.I. Too bad he wasn’t the one. Frank knows one day I will kill him in his sleep. His large presence in the house is like the king of all kings. Deep down inside he was too much of a pussy to put the dog to sleep when it suffered. He gets teary eyed when he sees American flags and World War II movies. If he had sons they would have all turned into faggots. She loves him and he won’t fuck her ever again. One day my own Tom Selleck will come.

The only times I feel like I accomplish anything are here. Here with a blank sheet. I never finish things well enough that I can ever experience pride. It’s been a long series of ill advised ideas, failed relationships, and days in the rain hiding from the outside world. Days where I think I have it figured out and have the final idea I needed and then nothing happens, and then nothing again. This will go on and on until the end of time. Change is hard this late in the game. I mean I think it is anyway. For fun and games I can always just continue watch other people prosper and fail.

I haven't been down the road in a long time. I haven't taken this route in so long. I like this route here. I like how this winds around and gets me to where I think I need to be. It's way fucking better than the bus. Dances and hugs and pats on the back are never going to fulfill me for as long as I stay on this route. Karaoke on Friday night gets cancelled for a random trip to the moon. Dinner and a movie ain't helping anyone on this route. John Holmes and Jerry Garcia driving a techno colored station wagon to the ocean for conversation about ecstasy and Mick Jagger lips. Rug burn from sitting on the floor statuesque for far too long through scary movies and rock videos. Park the car by the side of the road, park it across the street so no one sees us. They all start rumors, they all fill themselves with lies about the moon and lies about the way my car runs. The motor runs great, it needs a tune up, it needs to take different drives, silently through beaches and neon lit strips of Elvis Presley videos. Like a man not even with himself anymore. Like a ninja. Like someone in the deep blue sea swimming. I don't know, sort of like if you took one part confusion and one part total shit you would sort of feel this like this.