(detroit half life)

My brain is the absurdist drawing his outline in the dust.

Listening to the rain fall a quarter mile away (i'm guessing. i've never much been one for distance or rating time) wishing i was sitting on the old short couches sluggin my sixth cold beer on a fridate with two of my best and the tv. a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

Tonight i'm watching streamers dry.

Its the worst way to pass a night, that's true. i could be broke and sick of five shots trying to convince myself i've scored a deal while punk rock plays the punk rock daze and i ape the pose of giving a shit beyond the second band just to be a part of those kids i don't nearly spend enough of my stupor alongside even though they took me in. learned my name. gave me a reason to keep up with old g.g. and defend the world of wrestling entertainment.

Actually, that doesn't sound so fucking tragic by comparison though i've killed the love of shots right quick (except for those rare instances when some lady friend decides its time to fucking go for it in which case i'd make a foolish argument by pretending i wasn't ready) after...well i can't remember when.

In fact, it sounds rather nice.

But there are pinatal obligations that have called me home tonight. there are burgers in the freezer and plenty of time before another living human being (still debating the rations of ghosts) walks themselves through my front door.

Might as well aim to make something of it.