Wednesday 5/30/2007 12:39:00 AM

There are very few sidewalks here. Even less cyclists. It's a subtle hell spending your free time shuffling between the barnes and noble and the supermarket. Rummaging through soft, moldy yellow onions to find that one you're willing to pay $1.69 a pound to slice up and consume. Sizzle it it with your boneless, skinless, oh so very pink chicken breasts.

I pay an awful lot of money just to live and don't get anything back for it. Everyone wants to live, but so few actually do.

What is living really? Our humane definition of it? Other than farting loudly next to our spouses before passing out to the lullaby of so many commercials between reruns of seinfeld.

A job. A few children. And then retirement. Sickness. Poverty.

There are very few places to go here. Even fewer ways to get there.

The world is our shopping mall. Trying on life. Purchasing it. Only to find it's not quite as flattering as it seemed at the store.

We fill our closets with the costumes. And then never wear them.

There aren't many places to go from here. And even fewer ways to get there. I would drive. But there's so much traffic.

De.vile said...

I don't know if there is a theory related to it (would have been dandy if I could quote someone) but when all you can afford are unflattering clothes we just learn to live with em. Occasionally write a song on the drabness of it all, stab it with a pen, drown it with some pills and then wake up and be happy that it isn't as bad as it could be.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.