Years and years and years ago, I was convinced that I was going to be the next literary giant. A god. Hemmingway, Kerouac, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Eliot. I would be mentioned in the same breath as these men. I would be taught in schools hundreds of years after my death. I would, of course, be unappreciated in my time, but lauded post-mortem. This was simply what I was born for.

    Yeah, then I grew up. It's amazing how profound a 17 to 25ish-or-so year old can kid himself into thinking that anything he has to say hasn't already been said, better, hundreds of times before. My first glimpse of the reality of my unoriginality came while watching Carlin on HBO roughly a decade ago when my girlfriend at the time said something to the effect of "Holy shit, he's your real father, isn't he?". It really was like I was on stage. He was saying all of the shit I had said for years. And I never once bothered with Carlin before that night.

    That's when it first really occurred to me that nothing I have ever thought, said or felt, hasn't already been thought said or felt by god knows how many people. That's a crushing moment by the way. After all, I was convinced that I was supposed to be a god. I was clearly different than everybody else. I had insight dammit! Ah, youth. God bless it. Anyway, in the decade or so since my painful realization, I have come to discover that I'm really just your average hateful angry bastard. Nothing special. Just me.

    But, my ex-wife recently found a bunch of my old "poems" and thought that I might want to keep them for my daughter when she grows up and wants to know what daddy was like when he was young. I like to think that I haven't really changed much in the last 20 or so years, but looking at this stuff makes me realize just how much different I am in my 30's. It's actually kind of painful.

    So, in the interest of catharsis (and the fact that I'm obviously too lazy to keep up with this thing through any kind of regular circumstance) I have decided to dedicate this spot of the interwebz to my 17 to 25ish-or-so year old self's sometimes incoherent ramblings. Cause, after all, the world deserves to hear (read) my oh so important words. 

    We start with one of my all-time favorites. There's nothing quite like a 22 year old under-achiever questioning his place in life. God help you all.


Am I really what I appear to be?
Am I really this self-destructive, Gen-X posterboy
I make myself out to be?
Is there depth beneath the surface?
Or is that all there is to me?
Am I fooling myself by thinking
I go beyond what I show?
Is the act really the truth?
Is there something behind
The image?
Or am I just another wasted mind
On a tired planet?       (Editor's note: Holy fucking cliche Batman! Wow. Just, wow)
Is the real reason I fight society
Because I know I'd fit in all too easily?
Or do I fight just to fight?
Am I really giving secret handshakes
The whole time I'm looking
Down my nose at humanity?
Am I really that much better than
The rest of them
Or do I just tell myself that
To keep my sanity?
Is the image real
Or just a reflection of my surroundings?
Should I honestly believe
That I posess some special insight
Into the rest of the world?
Do I honestly believe it?
Do these words I write really mean anything
In the end
Or am I just indulging myself?
If I stick to my guns
And keep fighting
Am I really going to be any better off
When it's all done?
If I saw god
Would I believe it's him? 


    Yeah, that's right. Soak it in. I was so, like, deep and stuff. But have no fear, I have many, many more for you. And it just gets better. Til next time kiddies.