(spitting airs)

My brain is a league of kings. titans. mythologized on barstools and lost to the whiskey jars where they spend fresh lifetimes waiting for some old poet to come around. to drink them up. to spit them out in a storm of controversy only a teenage kick would ever wish (when the suffering of certain indignities are the last true facets of a modern man).

Today, i don't feel so very full of shit. despite the cracks in my head and the rumble in my stomach. i feel possessed of a certain achievement and the smile's spread all over my unshaven face.

I'm not sure why.

Last night was a revelry. a series of light beer choices and jello shots before frozen pizza at 3 in the morning. not so different than any other evening. everyone made it home alive. everyone imbibed too fast and too long and today we're all enduring that mistake.

But that's us, really. me. the dropouts. the rockers. my pic. we're all functions of our mistakes and it's that failure we embrace so readily. perhaps that's wrong. perhaps we should be dreaming of something bigger (though to be fair, i know goddamn well most are) but when the end comes to our days there's nothing we'd rather ascribe to than drinks and conversation. silly notions. stolen kisses. the arcane remnants of a decadent age.

And we're all proud to be a part of it.

For now...