In a perfect world, I’d give a shit about our Retarded president and the hurt he’s caused. I protest my thoughts on Twitter and join the fight.
In a perfect world, I would go out for drinks when my co-workers ask me too. I wouldn’t make up an excuse and go write at Starbucks alone.
In a perfect world, I would acknowledge the pleas of homeless. I wouldn’t pretend I that I don’t have any change. Or ignore a man who has blood running from his eyes.
In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to get into crushing debt to learn how to place lines on a computer screen.
In a perfect world, I wouldn’t watch the woman sneak her wedding ring off as I order another drink. And the next morning, we wouldn’t lie to each other saying that “we’ll totally do this again sometime”.
In a perfect world, I wouldn’t get sad watching all the empty eyes berried in their phones on the train. It wouldn’t break my heart to see all the endless scrolling, just for a little hit of stimulus.
In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have felt nothing when I was called a Racist, Bigot, Nazi, white trash, nigger lover, faggot, ignorant, or any other hateful slang.
But unfortunately, I live in this one,
where the hardest part is looking at yourself in the mirror everyday.
Twenty nine years today.
I spent twenty five of them thinking I was one way
only to find in the last four, I’m whoever I want to be.
That is awesome
all in the same shaken bottle inside me.
Which makes me feel stuck.
Stuck in time
Stuck in place
Stuck like Andrew Largeman at a party.
Here, everyone around me shuffles around, spurting their shit without thought
planning trips to Cabo, buying new SUV’s, and making memories with alcohol
I can’t tell if they’re running from meaning,
or chasing it.
I can’t even tell if it fucking matters.
Here I am at Twenty nine.
Another year older
Another year with days filled with wonder and excitement of a new sunrise,
but also a few days with a hunger that there has got to be something better
Happy Birthday Douchebag!
The clock is still ticking.
Everyone is making their moves,
You spend the first 5 years feeling shit around you
While the next 5, you spend getting told about all the cool shit out there.
So you spend the next 10 years daydreaming about all the shit you want.
Then you spend the next 10 years figuring out how to get the shit you want
Which makes you spend the next 10 years upset that the shit didn’t make you happy
That forces you to spend the next 10 years even more upset because now the shit you’re made up of, stops working.
So you spend the next 10 years taking care of some of the shit and giving the rest of your shit away.
Then finally, you spend the last of your days upset about the shit you didn’t do.
However if you’re smart,
and very wise,
you’ll figure out there is nothing better,
than just appreciating the beauty
in all the shit around you,
simply the way it is.
And accepting that all this other shit you’ve been told,
Everything is in front of you.
It always has been.
Getting 100k followers on Instagram
The satisfaction of seeing your son’s first A on a Math test
Being a better Christian
Being a Better Atheist
Meeting that girl across the crowed bar
Meeting the guy reading on the train
Owning a Ferrari
Getting a book published
Traveling to Europe
Making new friends
Starting your business
Being featured on Kayne West’s new album
Being more productive
Becoming a vegan
All this and more, is real
Regardless of what anyone tells you.
They are real
and obtainable as a gallon of milk.
But you got to break the goals down into bite sized pieces
And attack them
That’s the hard part.
Just a title,
or rather a statement.
About my loving father
Who has to always leave these bread crumbs
instead of being honest.
It drives me fucking crazy.
So, I’ll walk to the coffee shop to get my mind off it.
“What are you having?”
“In a light roast or dark roast?”
“I don’t really care either way”
I lied, I hate dark roast.
I drank two sips and threw it away.
God I love my parents.
We met on OKCupid.
Our conservation went nowhere.
I was tired of being alone and asked if she wanted to hang out.
We walked around CityPlace with longing eyes that said
Someone, anyone, please stay.
Our conversation was worse than before
Year ago, my grandpa’s heart gave out when I was mowing his lawn.
I never got to tell him I loved him.
The feeling of this date was much worse.
We finished walking and stopped at a park bench
I looked at the clock over the Pavlovian
A saw her hold back a tear.
I’m going to go home, I said.
She grabbed my arm and looked at me with those same eyes.
I’m Sorry I said.
Then next day I deleted my profile.
I’d rather be alone.
Writing is the reward.
It’s not getting your heart ripped out at workshop.
It’s not having an empty audience at your reading
It’s not seeing your name in print.
It’s not telling a girl at the bar you finished a novel.
It’s not reading your book’s review.
It’s not winning the Pulitzer Prize.
Writing is so much more.
It’s the willpower to tackle the next sentence
It’s the sense of accomplishment when you finish a piece
It’s learning from your previous draft’s mistakes
It’s the goosebumps you get after you type a line
It’s the smile when an ending clicks
All this is for you, and you alone.
Your personal victory.
The longer you remember that
the longer your fire will glow.
Writing is your reward.