Flow.

At the age of 30, I have been waiting for my socially mis-prescribed emotions to go away. And then I will make my move to mingle properly with other ‘grown up’adults who are ironically pretending. I’ve always meant to get real coked up and run a Fortune 500 company the way it ought to be.
We all have many roles in life; impossible to deny their absurd necessity of it all. But, I have come to differentiate between the role play and the increasing absurdity of life behind veils. Role is to duty, as: Veil is to obligatory. We cower behind an equal distribution of positive and negative attributes — to avoid certain mirrors which no doubt tend to obscure the storyline.

I was never young. I was never accepted. I was never successful. I was never satisfied. I was never sure. I was never brave. I was never charming. I was never well read. I was never wrong.
But that’s not what I remember nor does it matter when it comes to explaining the truth in what really happened. A truthful pretender socially deified as a storyteller. Even statistics naturally draws me to the mathematic politik, linearly set in motion to the numerical storyline.

You see, I was always able to pretend.

A 83 year old 30 year old child in the grip of death recounts his reinvention of the english language reinterpreted over and over through a scattered attention defiant mind. Seeking to remember a lifetime of experiences to explain humor as sociologically pure and unrefined . A story of self medication through philosophy, amphetamine, opiods and checked alcoholism. conveniently patching up anxiety and piecing together his forgotten life lost to years of mental illness.

A man that suffers from from an acute form of dualistic and polarized nostalgia. There is a duality between marveling at owning a keen sense of memory. But there is a strong mistrust that would prefer to deny the existence of any memory. How cognitively-ill-ergonomic thAt the bleakest moments of an idealistic memory can haunt you.

Imagine being able to connect the history of everyone and everything that touched your life. And then compile it, and let it weigh your sanity down as you begin to scientifically doubt your life due to an inability to fit a memory to the storyline—
-Living in a fantasy only reified and preserved by sensitive and spoken metaphor; One might be Unable to see then longview and along the way, becoming incapable of remembering to learn to forget.
Tenured.

A young man with 83 years of memories and emotions bound up in all 5 senses. A journey to seek out answers and experiences from both friends and foe.

1-2: Cultural Capital

There I was culturally capitalizing, banging my fist on a cocaine -treated wooden bar…”jack n coke, now! –chopchop.”  If my mastery of Missouri Mumble serves me right, everyone stumbling in seems to be misreading signs: Cultural Capital: Not Welcome, roughly transmuting me into a nigger in the most unconventional and quite possibly offensive way…and by the way.  The Ten Mile House cured my racist thoughts by desensitizing me to the word.  All apologies to an incredibly palatable word clearly outside my own socio-racially educated vocabulary.  How unfair it is that the word nigger is owned by the ignorant.  Racial biases aside, these fucking people all failed middle school English.  These fucking people; intellectually bankrupt and educationally in debt all seem nigger rich to me; when these fucking people let ignorance define  a Gray Race.  I wish I knew how the English hung on to Fag.  I have had to overstep what’s left of simple social arrangements and order a drink at the Ten Mile House.  My sliver striped tie, chosen to highlight my bleach blond hair; is often mistaken for a silver spoon… I’ve always been different since I was 3 years old my shit eating grins set me apart and simultaneously set me adrift.  At the age of 29, I want nothing more than to fit in after spending a childhood aimlessly…

Imagine the smell of Alcohol becoming vividly reminiscent, while drinking to forget.  I am have become living competition with Budweiser however- It will never remind me anything fulfilling nor will it ever be reminiscent of the its perverse drunken relationship the person consuming its horse piss blandishments.  Reeks of some salty 17 year old kids’ vomit.  Where as, a jack n’ coke poured hastily inside a dank bar tastes of furry 19 year old trimmed cunt… Pussy dew and Jack Daniels on my breath…

I have to gently remind the bartender,  “Steph, I too can be just as ignorant as a bud light soaked biker tipping over you’re tits, but I think you may have the most sexy armpits I have ever seen.”

Have you ever bar tended with brass knuckles in your back pocket, knowing that if you ever were to use them, someone’s life would brutally end…So you don’t.  I’ve never been in a fight; and I’ve never hit another human like I should have.  Perhaps it’s the brass knuckles that have weighed my fist down…unable to connect; cracking ribs and jaws. Or perhaps its because I am a coward.
“Wait back up” my story doesn’t begin here.  It all began with a girl named Marla.  Marla, my last barmaid wouldn’t stand for such rudeness.

Crooks and Thieves

“People are not good to each other”
Crooks and thieves:
I’ve fallen off the wagon yet again. Not the narcotic gravy train, but the amenable social wagon. My negative disposition in life keeps me sober when it comes to keeping on the social straight n narrow.

Friendships, relations, cohorts etc. etc. etc. keep us all socially drunk with yet another purpose. It is healthy to remind oneself every so often that social affects more often than not, are fleeting. I’ve wasted too much time on cheaper women and cheaper wine.
Again I call upon my negative mental disposition or what I have come fond of referring to ‘as just being a dick’ ‘.

I have worked diligently at cultivating friendship be because having a friend is a rarer occurrence than a normal man might admit. “People are not good to each other. ” Friends some times treat each other lower than people. I’ve managed to hate with the most general and confusingly accurate dispersal. I’ve cockishly or consciously allowed only a few to my premiere party at the center of the universe, where respect is learned and you can’t get through the front door without acknowledging the definition if the situation, my first name and formal introductions.
Trust is a word with less social value than race.

Trust is after all, just another complex belief system.
There is a universal understanding of this very scary and lonely distrust of others. In our most socially drunken moments; think age 17, your first love or marriage, bringing a child into the world, or when god is in your side at any given sporting event or positively tragic life event. We get drunk on the good times. But the age of knowing becomes unfaithful, as does Many first loves. People divorce, children grow up and drift away into the madness, and even god loses track of us at the end of our sporting lives. We spend our lives entrusting our idiosyncrasies and exposing insecurities in an attempt at mutual disclosure or friendship. Alas, in an instant personal relations sour and the thoughts, hopes, dreams and burning self disclosure is used to maim.

My path is “where the city sleeps.”
I’ve concluded that our long running philosophical connection may be over. I ask each year what it takes to tell the difference between thieves and crooks. When any crook or thief worth their salt knows good-n-well that whether or not they are mutually exclusive; most of them are both. As they rely on chumps, not unlike myself, to define the absurd, they have already taken advantage of your inattention and stolen a small part of your dignity along with your wallet.

I am a crook. I am a thief. I don’t care which definition is more accurate. For starters, I’ve hijacked the English language. Traditional definitions read more like rhetorical guidelines that give way to new and exciting verbal applications.

I stole your sunshine. I stole your confidence.

No one enters a social relationship altruistically. What do your friends offer you?-What’s your social worth?
Does it amount to trust?

It amounts to a laugh.

My laugh is composed of Every laugh I’ve stealthfully induced. How clever ..taking bits and pieces of your soul without your consent. How many times have I unveiled an identity and held a up a mirror to reveal life’s pockmarks. I can predict the reaction with my statistical imagination. I’m not immune to emotional manipulation at this or any level because at our weakest or most insecure moments we Rely on laughter to make sense of it all. looking into the mirror, after avoiding it for so long has a steep learning curve.
My laugh is disarming because it is familiar. My laugh is familiar because its was taken from you. I use to be proud if my collection. Denoted by different races and national prowess.

Blue Collar Crisis:

Chapter 1:
Blue Collar Crisis

Fuck Fame.  You just had to get paid.  I was born deaf, blind and dumb, ignorant to the world; only to lose my senses again at 28. I had to walk Ten Miles to rename the game.  At the end of the Tenth, on the last steps, I met men whom have witnessed days when I didn’t exist.  They fail to see that it doesn’t matter because in their hands and mine, the drink persists.  Its influence reeks like “salty confidence” in the air and on our collective breath.

All at once, my collar beams royal blue, until I offer up a glass of wine and a plate of meat and cheese.  My mere attempt to show my brothers a taste of what proverbially keeps them down (cultural capital): a socioeconomic farce, a satire written by drunken shadows, who try to measure a man’s worth by the fruit content of the drink in their hand.  To the contrary and my chagrin: Wine glasses shatter when smashed against the bar and don’t nearly make as loud a statement as the way a beer bottle breaks and becomes a pretty nifty weapon.
Still.
My blue collar is stained, but not tattered or faded from the sun and it tends to show my age…or lack thereof.  My blue collar was not earned through the traditional routes denoted by battlefield commissioned scars and heroic altruism.  I am a tourist passing through a tight nit community of common people.  Through my own doing, I have become a manipulative force to be reckoned with.  I never claimed to be any one person due to the fact that I am a shill whose purpose is to be ever-aware of the Definition of the Situation.  I have been shilled into the role of the truthful pretender who speaks in metaphor and thrives on the sublime notion of fantasy.  My identity is locked in my mind and is neighbors with hidden inspiration few will ever find.

This inspiration manifests all around me in the silly altruistic persons who will never seek to understand the full context behind their actions.  Those who say that it is easy to criticize, especially such heroics, might fail to recognize the speech pattern behind what can only be called “The Loyal Opposition.”—the voice of inspiration.  The true identity and nature of “beer bottle breaking” is never quite edified.  A spilled glass of wine and shattered glass speaks sorrowful circles around a beer bottle that is futilely broken in a display of wasted energy and anger.  Fuck Fame twice over. – I’ve wasted too much time, on cheaper women and cheaper wine.  These moments that make me crawl fail to understand that I fall down; and then I fall.

Please color my collar gray.  These fascinating moments that have delighted me along the colored collar spectrum have exhausted me emotionally and intellectually.  Like a good waiter in a fine dining restaurant, I’m tired of changing costumes in between each and every table, changing venues in between each and every restaurant. I am tired of changing accents and I am tired of getting fired.  I will cling to youth but close the door on the people I know.   A compromise leaving me perpetually….
culturally capitalizing.