fuck literature

I don’t have the time or the mental capacity

to impress you with beautifully arranged words

written by other people

because I have shit to do:

I have pills to take

and I have to go to work

and I have to get out of my parents’ house

and I have to smoke weed

and I have to laugh at paranormal investigators on tv

and I have to exercise by kicking a hacky sack

and I have to masturbate if I randomly get a boner + a bathroom + enough time     

and I have to meet my family for dinner at 7 o’clock

and I have to go to the bars on Friday/Saturday nights because there’s nothing else to do

and I have to dance in the nude after I take a shower because I’m too scared to dance in front of anyone

and I have to sleep

and I have to release a variety of venomous snakes downtown in order for you to stay

and I have to get married to a person that’s kind of my type because you left, which means:

I have to grow up

I have to get a better paying job

I have to move out of my parents’ house and get my master’s

I have to stop talking to certain people

I have to grow apart from certain people

I have to grow facial hair + shave it because I’ve never had a 5 o’clock shadow

I have to buy a dutch colonial with a front + back yard

I have to get my life together by cultivating a human being(s) out of bodily fluids

I have to tell random people my secrets + ask them for advice

I have to go to a psychiatrist to get more pills

I have to take more pills so I can survive being alive

I have to take a shower so I don’t smell bad

I have to pop blackheads in the bathroom mirror

I have to purchase a hot tub

I have to drink light beer out of cans and pass out every night in the hot tub

I have to get depressed

I have to figure out why I bought a muscle car + why our house has a closet solely dedicated to shoes

I have to pretend to kill myself with my index finger because I’m terrible with life-altering decisions

I have to host backyard barbeques for family and friends so they can see + complement the little touches of clever décor (scented candles + miniature knick-knacks of pleasant, golden-brown bears in swimsuits striking poses + tiki torches + summer themed china + plastic drink umbrellas) which were put on display throughout the house by the person who was still kind of my type

I have to watch a tear drop quickly repel down an eighteen year old brunette’s face as she gags on a cock in an amateur porn video (I don’t feel disgusting)

I have to ejaculate with cautious ears because I have a family + they’re sleeping + silence + I would only have 10-15 seconds to cover everything up

I have to buy a new calendar every year because the human being(s) we cultivated grew bigger + he/she/they moved out

I have to prolong my life by eating more vegetables

I have to ingest a lethal strain of e. coli that is playing hide and seek in a fast food salad

I have to have regrets, A LOT of regrets because I’m confused and not happy

I have to die + a funeral + a burial + decomposition.

I have to not exist.

Exactly.

In middle school, there was this program that encouraged/bribed our class to read.

If we read three books in a month, we got a free personal pizza from a national pizza chain.

I read three books a month.

The problem is the program stopped after the 4^th grade.

I notice the money or check, then I’ll read the message in the card.

Address.

Love.

Sign.

Initial.

It’s so clever:

Other people expressing

OUR emotions

For US.

In sparkles.

In glitter.

In perfect penmanship.

Flowery penmanship.

Like plastic roses

With real thorns

That hurt sometimes.

But sometimes it feels good to bleed.

And see blood.

And watch it pump like a water main break

That happens at the tips of your fingers

And

DRIPS

Onto the carpet.

Suddenly you realize that

You missed the emotional impact.

You realize how fucking fake.

And how fucking pathetic.

And how fucking despondent.

And how fucking DESPERATE

We have become.

I know I sound melodramatic.

But it’s a side effect.

Shopping at HALLMARK.

sorry i'm nervous and don't know what to say or how to start this

Hi.

I write.
This is a place for me to show you what I write.
And for you to read what i write if you want to
 +
have nothing better to do
 +
cure boredom.

I will also post things that I find interesting because it will make me feel better about myself if someone comments on it because I need validation like everyone.

I also work at a deli in a grocery store in pennsylvania.
While I'm working, I think about all the random ways to get accidentally injured at a deli without being at fault. I also smile, slice, weigh, bag, and say, "Have a Great Day!"

It's like selling drugs, except you don't see very many hundred dollar bills
+
you have to put your hands near blades and hot oil
+
no getting high during your shift cause you're selling ham off the bone, american cheese, and bacon lovers turkey, instead drugs.

I graduated college and moved back home a couple of months ago.

I didn't get any sleep today because there was some guy using an electric drill because my parents' have to remodel every square inch of their house. Which means I'm tired.

"Have a Great Day!"