I suppose there's something to be said for introspection. It can be a good thing to take an honest look at yourself, sometimes. However, when you make a career out of it, it can get to be a little monotonous. Plus, you risk the possibility of becoming obnoxiously self-obsessed. Or of just simply tuning yourself out. Being that I've pretty much always been kind of legendarily narcissistic, self-obsession is just part of the package, but when you can't even hold a decent conversation with yourself, well, you've probably hit some kind of existential wall. Or something. I don't really know.

The point is, I spent a huge amount of my youth locked inside my own head. After all, I was supposed to be a god. I just couldn't figure out how to do it, and that bothered me. Anyway, I'm just warning you (all two of you) that while I torture you with my decade or so old ramblings, you will notice a theme. And it will almost surely annoy the shit out of you (hell, I wrote 'em, and it annoys the shit out of me). So, anyway, back to me at 22 (I think. Definitely 22 or 23. I do know that I was working at Red Robin at the time. Yeah, envy my life). You have been warned.



Coffee and words
And thoughts
I want to be Kerouac
Or Dylan
Or Steinbeck
But no
I'm me
Whatever the hell that is
Trying to keep my sanity
Through literary therapy
So much in my head
Wants to get out
Be heard
But I can't seem to get it right
It's never right
Just words on paper
I'm hoping for some dam to burst
And pour out profound floods
Through my pen
And I guess I'll just keep trying
And waiting


You're welcome. And feel free to bill me for the aspirin, I understand. See you soon, Gentle Reader.