Waste

The time on the clock in the bottom right-hand corner of my computer said 4:11 AM, so I decided to download some music. That’s as far as I was able to get. My journeys never seem to last an awfully long time. Neither do my cigarettes, and maybe that’s why.
I broke my pinky nail, and in doing so, I realized that life is fragile, and I want to do everything I can to break it.
“Put your camera up,” said a friend of mine. He is a silly boy. I love him very much.
The birds are singing outside. I can hear them. What right do they have to sing at 4:29 in the morning? What right do they have to sing at any given point of the day? What gave them that privilege? They always sound so happy, even if they’re angry. One can never tell.
Daisies like a good day. Thorns like a bad one. I have no idea what that means. My brain is on fire. The refrigerator is a home to the gremlins in my thoughts. They don’t like it there, but I keep them there for future reference, just in case I feel the need to converse with one of them. They aren’t very friendly, but they have my back when I need help. I try to keep up with them, but they’re far too quick for my liking.
Laugh hysterically next time someone dies. It just might land you in a mental institution. Those are fun. I’ve been there. Best week of my life. True story. I’d like to go back, but the system won’t let me, unless I have a breakdown, and my dad won’t let that happen.
The concept of time boggles my fragile little mind. Every day, the same hours pass, and you’d expect something different to happen in each of those hours, but it always seems like you’re doing the exact same thing today at 1:38 PM as you were yesterday at 1:38 PM. The animals in your household just walk around. Periodically, you will check the mail, or check the cupboards. The peanut butter is still right next to the animal crackers, where you left it three hours ago. Don’t worry; you haven’t been robbed of your peanut butter. Spice girls and tiny plaid ninjas go well together.
The deep effect of cartoons on small children catches my interest. A six year old girl sits in front of the TV for hours with a look of complete placidity on her face. You can’t tell what she’s thinking, because her expression is utterly blank. Does she understand the situations which are taking place on the screen or is she merely enamored by the colorful images, talking animals, and fairytale lands? Has she learned that the good guy always wins yet? I shall have to introduce her to my gremlins.
The freak show is over, the cowboys are going home. Take off the clown nose, and drink some water. The violins are not going to play for you. They don’t care.
I want to be adorned with torn taffeta and unruly amount of pearls and diamonds. I want my hair to shine in the moonlight, while piled atop my head in many curls. I want an imagination. I want to be vivid, yet unnoticed. There is too much sugar in Pepsi.
The dogs go mad with energy. We don’t know why. They stand still staring at each other, as if expecting the other to make the first move. Eventually, the girl will go first, preceded by the boy. They don’t know what they’re doing. His ears are perked, and her eyes are fierce. They don’t know why.
Neal Cassady died. Jack Kerouac featured him in a few of his novels. Neal Cassady died after being in a coma. He drank too much, and thought too little. Walking to a town fifteen miles away, while highly intoxicated, seems to be a solution if you’re looking for demise, which, I am.
My eyes are rolling into the back of my head, and I can’t seem to keep my body upright in my chair. I believe my mind to be slowly decaying. Internet games and the recurrence of the same song for four hours can lead one to insanity. Therefore, I quit.