Has my life returned to it's former faux glory?
The essence of drug abuse, embodied in a flanno wearing, hoodied up, sockless man drinking by himself on a Saturday morning. I have laid my foundations on shaky ground, unsound and unsafe, prefixes can't fix me, neither suffixes or fixies either. I'm comfortable performing this traveling monkey show for you. Just laugh at my misfortune as bad turns to show pony firepower embezzlement. Do the monster mash. Do you love me just as much as she did? And the one before? The eternal quest to crawl back into what we fell out of.
I'm nearly finished my first drink, and I need to have a cigarette. Let's see if they think I'm going to do a runner. I can feel the laser pointing eyes manufacture a new gouge in the back of my head. I'll leave my headphones on top of my flanno and drink and hope they don't take away my precious dregs.
No luck on the confrontation front, they ignored me. I'm burping up acidic beans. Too many beans. I might stay here until they throw me out. The music has gone shit. A girl probably picked it. Hang on, there's a harmonica solo. Worth it. Not as intolerable as I thought.
Just another solo punter, not willing to buy food when he drinks. Is that a warping of personas? Third or first, it's all perspective. Some guy just asked me if WE were finished with the menus. Does that mean he can see all fifteen thousand facets of my personality? Hovering across from me, in an empty seat.
You don't need to catch a plane to lose yourself. Just put your phone on airplane mode and take the trip outside.
The music is sombre now. Maybe the dude at the counter had a funeral today.
Maybe.
Maybe this is the future, and going back on my word is like hitting backspace on the typewriter of life. It doesn't change a thing except shake everything up. More punters arrive. If looks could kill, I'd be a lamb led to slaughter. Five girls and three guys who would probably spit on my grave if they knew me better. But based on that reaction, they just don't like my haircut. At least they are playing Prince now.
Cash ruins everyone around me, C.R.E.A.M, get the money, pop the fucking till boy. Too many cameras and panopticon kaleidoscopic viewpoints.
The bicycle ride home is going to be an interesting experience. I'm not packing plementimays, so it's going to be more of a scenic journey into my iPods shuffle function.
Fridays are worse when your alone. I hate the weekend. People with money and jobs and lives come out to play. Give me the serenity of a dead main street at 3.33am anyday, over this travisty of a calender week.
I work, just not the hours you do. Vampires of an new empire, deciding our fate with the roll of the dice.
Sevens or snake eyes, stupidly slung.
I'm going to go look for drunk people to borrow money from soon. Obvious underagers are entering. Downhill like Cool Runnings.
There is a new Larry David movie poster up. It just looks like a ninety minute version of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I met Mick tonight. Earlier. He grew up with Bon Scott.
That is better than you.
Good Evening readers, hope your festive weekends started with a pop bang pop bang smash crash head on collision. Good Evening and Goodnight.
I had the best lunch today. Parmesan and Onion bread, freshly baked, tomato, cheese and avocado.
Time for another drink.
I should really just go home and save the money for tobacco.
No, I just got conned into grabbing another drink.
I forget you have to pay at the end here.
Honest.
Why?
ReplyDeleteI did the most and the best, you know this.