Hey, tick tock, motherfucker, itís another one of these things, like, what? Like you gotta'nough time? do ya?
We fight ninja-style with sprinklers, because why not, why not battle evil within ourselves while we pretend to fight evil with garden hose accessories?
Thereís not enough, thatís the thing, thereís not enough time, there never is, not for it all, not for even half of the good stuff, and why not? Because we make time for the horrible, for the stuff that makes us feel sad or tired or worthless or worn out, and the other stuff, the rest, the real, thatís what we throw to the back of our minds, like porno quick tossed under the bed when your mom walks in.
Earphones on eardrums, piping in insanity, but only until we can reach the loudness, until we convince everyone that weíre right in our quest against whales, hey, man, do you know how many people are injured by beached whales every year? Sometimes they explode, and itís never a pretty sight, unless youíre into the whole whale-innards-on-everything fetish. If youíre part of that underground world, you probably should just hand me back my pamphlet and forget that we ever had this talk. But meet me here at eleven tonight, bring lube and a fish net.
The sky spins, a drunken concert-goer with nowhere to go, lost on the streets of the after party, talking too loud about things that donít matter and pretending to be important. And when it becomes too much, we all have to stop walking and tell the sky, ďHey, sky, you really need to stop that. Youíre out of control right now, and youíre irritating everyone. Is that what you want?Ē And in response, the sky pisses its pants, and laughs. It makes a good point, so we all continue on.
When it gets hard to remember to remember, thatís when shit gets bad. You go to sleep, you wake up, you donít know if itís you or someone else. You a driver or a passenger, and does the fact that this information seems a little unimportant mean anything? Well, you know how it goes, you forget where you left yourselfóprobably with your keys. You can only hope that if someone else finds you, theyíll let you know, give you a call or something. Mail you back in hopes of a reward, but sorry do-gooder, thatís not how it works, not this time. The only reward is hello would you like some toothpaste?
Look, weíve danced this dance before, you and I, and maybe you werenít here, but I really doubt it matters at this point. You know me, and if you donít hereís my card and my disarming smile. I wonít ever ask you to trust meóIíll insist that you donít, actuallyóand of course youíll end up trusting me because everyone says Iím a helluva a guy. And heck, maybe I am, but that doesnít mean Iím not wondering how you look when you fuck, or how you sound when you talk to your grandparents that you donít like very much. And if I hit on it, if I figure it out, that tone of voice or that tone of life, Iíll know and youíll know and youíll try to hide from me and Iíll be disgusted with your bindle of lies.
We all dance in the mirror, and when it breaks, the shards only make it that much more dangerous and appealing. You like the edge, hereís a few, and Iím right there and so are you, and good thing I brushed my teeth because my breath in your ear could have gone two waysóthe way your spine tingles, the way you lick your lips and try to catch your breath before you answer, that means it went the more pleasant way. Which doesnít necessarily mean this is going to be a fun time.
You stand there beating a sack of trash with the bones of a madman, and you donít understand why I wonít put starch on your shirt. You make a good argument about the fact that this is the way it needs to be, but Iím not entirely convinced, so instead of joining you in your quest, I will just go to the store and buy some eggs.
What it all comes down to is that when you smile confidently and engage in the real world, all I see is question marks and wasted opportunities. I know you look at me with pity, but you should probably save it. Youíll be needing it long before I will.