Sorry for the poor grammar, punctuation, and poor versing.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Just when YOU think YOUR better than everyone, or: Wine is a terrible thing to abuse
I have much to write, however little will be written here. Don't feel jealous my pencil will never touch another piece of paper, theoretical or otherwise. For the time being I lay my thoughts here, if they get laid. Mostly they don't. Mostly they stayed backed up in brain, much like an important reference I could be making. With a wrinkled expression on my face I look down to my right, and hold my head in disdain (the entire accumulation of actions represent the disdain not merely the head holding.) Wine is a terrible thing, unless it's drank like civilized people drink, drop by expensive yet tasty drop. Those of us less civilized, those of use more human with more apparent complications, or simply the more sociable drunks of the working class care less about the quality and more about the effects of the tolerable quantity. My association to these words is direct and, simultaneously, indirect so different people will have different impressions (in the event this read more than once.) I will be frank here and tell you how I am writing most of this. I am writing it with my head down on my bed and/or keyed portion of my laptop(the latter makes it difficult because occasionally I hit the buttons with my face), brain comfortably filled with a decent red wine and a heart lost in many unnecessary emotions. I sigh often. The sigh is some sort of symbol for me. Not only sighing out of boredom or discomfort, in fact sometime out of neither, rather my sigh is my general angst. I can be in a decent mood and something will perturb or unsettle me and it will cause me unleash the awkward deep exhale that speaks every language. Or so it speaks a general meaning, the underhand is lost in metaphor or personal translation. What am I writing about? Stream of consciousness? Angst? Somewhere in between? I don't know myself. Perhaps i'm writing about failure or the assumption there of. Perhaps I'm writing about insecurities, or psychoanalysis there of. Perhaps, again, I'm writing about one's distaste of other's idiosyncrasies, and more over one's looking glass perspective of other's distaste of his or hers own idiosyncrasies. I'm not sure why my fingers are leading this incongruous onslaught of words unto the worldwide web. I, also, am not sure that these fingers and, by blame, I have chosen to ramble as I am. In either case I'm sure you can analyze what I have written much as I analyze everyone I am around and draw your own conclusions towards the well being of the author. Discomfort, confusion, and ignorance. Ego, superficialities, and making poor decisions on who to trust. Those could be labels for this post, maybe that's why they were termed in the last sentence.