Counting up like counting cards. The tricks they pull to reel in the tourists. Splitting in half twice and get the necessary results. Sit in the high chair. Blow the speakers. Barefoot basketball. Then on to the same old thing. Interesting party with contemporary high school brats. All of them with touch phones and low left esteem. "I'm sure I've met you somewhere before." He says like a jackass. Moving to thousand oaks soon. Different kid. Different metal band. No one has heard of you and you were not special due to it. The high school wiped my prints off already. I was never even there. To accept the failure to create a legacy is to feel entire body defeat. Wishing to come in contact with the pretty women around the coffee shop and everyone lies to one and other. "We're leaving because so and so has to go home." They show up at the party. Unlike the kick back. No temptation. Stand up for myself like a man though I was never seen as an equal. You have to drink that on an empty stomach. Listen to bad rap music. All of the carbon copies. Changing each other in slow rotation. Why is it cool to smoke cigarettes in garages? I broke that edge and feel awful for it. Never to continue again. There is too much at stake as I lay in my childhood bedroom. The sound of my typing being the only sound and we somberly spread the ashes of the family dog in the morning. A borderline psychotic maneuver. To appeal to our beliefs about a god or about any sense of peace in the world. "Why do you like kickbacks more than you like parties." I realized again that my old friends are so far away from me now. We can't rekindle a friendship. Present ruins past. Present ruins past. Talk about it all. The tire change and the spit on the steering wheel. Too much more than to type. Everything closing down and I never ended up stealing anything to drink from any other. They will talk shit about me being there.
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