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Get Me My Soapbox, Sonny by Ray Printer Friendly

So I was sitting around tonight, listening to some music, and just sort of thinking about things…always a bad idea, in my opinion. But sometimes it can’t be helped. My brain and I have always had what could be called—at best—an unhealthy alliance.

So I was thinking about my younger days, the times when I didn’t care about credit reports or gas mileage or drug tests. Those sorts of things were for old people to worry about, and I was more concerned with living life, you know?

Stupid little shit.

The thing is, I didn’t really get any life lived back then. I hung out, drinking, smoking, whatever, wasting away my youth with idiocy. I had my good moments back then, don’t get me wrong—I had ideas and thoughts that could have changed the world (and maybe they did, but I wasn’t really paying attention)—but I always thought I knew so much more than I actually did (a bad habit that I’ve carried with me into my “grown-up” years, and will probably carry to my funeral). I would sit around, getting wasted, talking about mainlining life, about using existence for all it was worth and throwing away the husk. I would get all carried away with dreams and extreme words, all the while sitting on my living room floor and getting smashed.

Sometimes I think that my dreams may have waited as long as they could, but that they eventually had to move on, to find someone that would do something with them other than talk about them. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not complaining about my life (for once), and I’m not saying that there isn’t any more time to fulfill the adventures I had planned when I was a teenager (the thing with the seventeen Mexican prostitutes and the chocolate factory is probably never going to happen, but I guess I’m okay with that).

It’s just that sometimes I hear a song, or see a picture, or read a book, and it reminds me of those years between being a kid and being a man, and I think about those dreams and expectations I had back then; I think about the way I saw the world, and the way that I planned on shaping it, forming it, and making it my own. And it’s like remembering a great friend that you grew out of touch with, you know? Like you feel that pang of sadness, you think about picking up the phone and trying to rekindle the past, but in the end you know that you really only get to pick from two options: the present or the future.

I don’t recommend wasting either of them.


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