We aint never had nuthin close to a future. She was a waypoint, I stepped on for a cold minute. Her minutiae blinded me, like the glare off mud flaps with chrome vixens scissoring their legs.

She wasn't a vile cunt mind you. She was good in bed and kept me warm. For the most part I was satiated, but her mood changes were the seasons and even though I deemed myself a haggard veteran of her cold shoulder spells, her face this instance disgusted me.

I have played two years upon her like pavement. I shoveled god's white shit off her face just to move. My stagnancy made her putrid, my serotonin levels failed her and her friends. I will never hate her. I will arrive to fuck her face when she feels better, when her winds shift, eschew the gelid drizzle and her limbs explode in color to suffocate me in their verdant embrace.

I leave friends with her, to watch. I leave enemies with her, to rot. People to me belong in the corral of my memory to buck and be broken in the serenity of my senility.

The chances are that I will be dead before Al Zimer spots me. He seems to me to be a garroters twat that twists the soul of those that dared to live too well, too long. Sundowning, whilst some drown.

Some know that when I go on sabbatical I return with herpes. I have loved every woman that I kissed. And lied to them all.

Much love to East Hartford.

I am representative of the student body. I pine, like oak to be laid out in bliss, to Split Sundaes and go bananas.

I saw an Eagle on the chalkboard of freshmen Algebra. Granted, I had a head full of acid and some fuck freaked me out with a Wonder Woman Pez dispenser during homeroom. Jesus turned his head and peered at me. I almost punched the sociology teacher, I had to sit in the back in my own pew.

Lord knows, I didn't stink although I made one as the heretic in the study halls. Me and a mulatto kid made hell. He later made it real when he punched me for being racist. I'm not really. I just had a shaved head and a red tie with doc martens, and I idolized Edward Norton and for that matter, Edward Furlong. Maybe i JUST liked the fat guy who is in Earl nowadays.

For the most part i had no friends. I was an underachieving stoner with a penchant for the dramatic. Dissect the sentence and see what is true today. Lets just say i don't smoke weed.

Rock on gold dust woman. I took the drugs as a guinea pig. I peaked at halftime, I geeked at mass. I played a role and now I'm just bored.

Of writing this and my past. The FEW chore will hold
pee poll
like the COCK us in I OWE YA
Hoey Jinds questions a fact he can't
\ DEE SIE FER
Go into SHAWK
like ANNA FA LAK TIC
cause i rip shit the quickest and the baddest DIE A FER RECESS
like a student in the garden of kids
I flip ish so quick the lip be on the top of the lids

5 days a week

She was mouth breather who's lungs sounded like the floor of a movie theater every time she breathed in. Her aura reminded me of using baby wipes, perhaps of those people who blew their nose on them while on the toilet and, not wanting to waste paper, went on the wipe their ass.

Tom Robbins said that their were two kinds of people in the world, "Those who thought that there were two kinds of people in the world, and those that knew better." I had, as of then, had yet to make up my mind one which one I was. Usually, there were only two groups. People that could stand me to a degree, and those who hated my guts.

Lately, I have found myself in the latter half of Tom's description. I found a select group that was completely able to lie to my face while pretending that they could stand me, those whose level of adulation rivaled that of a serf to a king, and those who could stand me in small doses, doses as small as those of arsenic that a beaten wife feeds her drunken husband for years until she had had enough and outright killed him one night.

My affinity for long sentences had been quelled for awhile due to machinations and delusions of grandeur. KISS. Keep it short and simple, or Keep it simple, stupid. I have tried to squeeze every ounce of meaning from single words, while letting my verbosity wane like New Jersey. It is my understanding as of this writing that being loquacious is not tantamount to being verbose.

The early ninties seem a life time away, and yet somehow, 1997 seems like yesterday. I suppose that the styles have changed some. The music has. Maybe when the music on the radio starts to suck, you're too old. As if one were a gator in a fishtank and then released, never to grow bigger.

It takes only a role of the dice for some executive to make the next big thing in music. What if Herman's Hermits became popular first? Would John and Paul have become relegated to nasally harmonizing about Mr. Brown's lovely daughter? Rhetorical questions in writing are nothing more than filler I assure you, but I am rusty so bear with me.....

To the left, to the left....

For awhile I thought making ends meet was making ends meat. Like those packages of baloney ends for sale cheaply at the deli counter in a Market Basket. Now I know its making ends meet. I have never started anything so I don't know how to finish anything, so I can't seem to make ends meet. Ends meat I could do.

When I started writing the Inklinks on the old site, I didn't know what a blog was, so they weren't a blog. This is a blog solely because I am writing it in a "blog adminsitrator", therefore it is banal and my words can flow out like any other mint in the fecal-tainted cosmic communal mint bowl of life.

One should always wash their hands after making water, ends meat too, I suppose. Then you can take a mint, but use the tongs if they are provided.

At the crux of it, I have difficulty writing sober and since I'm not as much in my cups as I used to be, I more often than not find myself staring at a blank screen. When I was always high or drunk, I found myself arc welding words without a mask. Now when I wanna write, I have tricked myself into thinking I have to get fucked up first, and when that happens I do it to get fucked up and not to write. I can still weld, but the light blinds and I give up quickly.

So when they ask me why I don't just write for a newspaper, or freelance I tell them that I don't have enough money for it. I'd have to morgage my soul for a pound of drugs and a river of booze just to take a crack at it, in hopes that I can make some money and keep the cycle going.

The cycle will no doubt kill me. But when I eventually hop on it, I will have no worries about burning out because it will be inevitable. I will have fun while it lasts, maybe even make enough money to be wealthy. Although I will continue to be morally bankrupt, at least I won't have to worry about making ends meat.

I couln't help myself.