All I wanted was crispy bacon and scrambled eggs but the man seated to my right insisted on being part of my breakfast. In his mind he was slicker than snot on a doorknob, but to me he reeked of the most foul cologne of all; desperation. And guess what I said to the filthy Mexican valet boy? Guess! Ha ha. I said I counted five quarters, six dimes and two nickels when I got here and if a single one is missing I’ll burn this fucking diner the ground! Ha ha. Needless to say nothing was missing. Ha HA! Am I right? Am I right or what? Fucking people, my god. The ability to pick your battles will never cease to hold weight in my life. Oh yes yes, you are… on the spot, correct by me… sir I responded. With a hangover hammering the insides of my eardrums I knew I needed a good meal, but I began to doubt the necessity of this particular one. Ditching on the bill while this insufferable rodent’s back faced mine was gaining merit in this horse race of immoral exit techniques. I quietly reached for my wallet and calculated the total including tip (minus the meal of course, after all, I’d only be fleeing after a cup of coffee and side of sourdough toast. The plate itself had yet to arrive and what the hell, if I was bussing I’d encourage recycling the meal before the hour expired or at least sharing it among the hungry. You can never underestimate the morale boost injected inside a plate made for naught). He swung his roll of insecure neck fat my way, this time to comment on the restaurant uniforms and how it was blasphemy that the waitresses weren’t forced to strut around in skirts that expose at least the lower half of their ass. He stuck his tongue out beyond the tip of his nose and did the best impression of a diagnosed sociopath I’d ever seen. I instantly felt sympathetic but ultimately desensitized. Momentarily I gave up on the idea that we are born good and slowly turned evil by the cruelness of life. I thought of a quote my girlfriend sent me; Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is trying to sell you something. I still believe we bring children into this world to first and foremost validate our own lives, and I still ask myself if I will ever truly desire the responsibility of a boy. The pressures of becoming an adult are proving to be hard enough. How does anyone have time to raise a child the way they intended? Life is pain highness, life is constant struggle. Why involve one more? To pass on the surname and prove infinite respect I suppose. Or maybe it’s as simple as having a piece of life that requires unconditional love and support. Life is too hard to go through alone. All of us will die like dogs in solitude under our favorite tree. All of us alter our destiny with each decision we make. The enlightened man is the one able to accept confusion, maturely deal with failure, and pursue his honest passion with class and vulnerability. He is able to accept he will never be perfect but constantly chase the idea of personal perfection. The enlightened man realizes this is all a beautiful illusion.
Problem is, all of the people I know are far too young to understand the subtle beauty of leaving a fingerprint behind that inspires. Once you truly realize you’re stuck and only given one chance; one goddamn chance, one fucking chance to perfect the order of each word in your poem or each brush on your landscape you begin to appreciate the grind and effort of those around you. Questioning everything will keep you on your toes. Settling will leave you barely satisfied. I write these paragraphs as if I have answers when in fact I have none. All I know is I want to write. I want to publish a book every year and any less will leave me unsatisfied.
At 23 I am already baffled. I take solace in my fridge full of alcohol and an end in near sight. It’s funny how desperation breeds undeniable creativity.
What an existential load of bullshit this poem is. Everything is shit.