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"...and a thousand slimy things lived on
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i am bad at being good
but good at being bad
ironic that i should be mired in respectability
i will die of boredom
instead of the adrenaline thrill brought on by the momentary stress of fistfights and the occasional shot fired in anger, it has been supplanted with the ongoing stress of doing my best to suppress the urge to strangle and maim people whose incompetence wastes the time that composes my working hours
i miss the heroin cigarettes and the laid back numbness
i miss being terrible and dangerous
i don't necessarily miss the hollow debauchery, but there are moments.
maybe i do romanticize it, oh well...
my horror and revulsion that now i am just another tiresome fool keeping myself warm with the sordid tales of my "colorful" past like the sotted grandparent telling the old story about walking five miles barefoot uphill both ways through twelve feet of snow just to get to school
a perverse version of the library computer in the recent movie version of "The_Time_Machine"
memory and knowledge are sometimes the damnation of the living
and so did i"
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