Poor Boy Productions

I am afraid it is not going to be an easy weekend.  It is bad enough that the United States  is $20 Trillion in debt, still (Corporation?  Republic?  Who the fuck knows?) and the fat sheeple of this land feel like celebrating it with GMO crap and I just don’t feel up to task to convince them otherwise.  Maybe I am a prophet destined to a lonely life; last year’s adage garnered only a handful of likes, after all.

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He that hath eyes to see, let him see.

II Corinthians 2:11 [KJV]

And for this cause God shall send them strong delusion, that they should believe a lie:

So in my honest solitude (“a prophet did once say that honesty is a lonely word“), I poured my self a radical two ounce of Talisker Whiskey from the Isle of Skye (may your soul rest in peace, Grandma).  <Feminists, speaking of shoes, I’ve walked a mile in high heels… listen to some good old Clint Black>

It’s not so much the debt, as depressing as that truth is, that I’m crying in my eyes and dying in my hearts, as much as feeling the sentiments of an expressive Kizomba song.  If only I had a partner to dance with tonight; but, alas, I could not content myself with merely a dance; it is romantic love I crave.  She really should know how I feel a year later, tonight, but I am afraid it would be selfish of me to email her when I am feeling so blue and needy, when I still don’t have a plan to rescue US.  Last July 4th weekend we last made love like a tasty salsa, hot and spicy; a full, long year since I held her in my arms, since I felt her sweet heart and tender love.  Too many stale and bland tortilla chips since then.

So in my desperation I am broadcasting to the ocean of the Stranger, the internet, anticipating that my voice will be drowned in the noise of millions of other drops.  Emotions can be fluid, yes, yet the earth of my heart feels like a forgotten Atlantis.  Capricorn is, after all, a horny goat swimming in the lonesome sea, by the milky way.

For the third time now, How it Used to Be.

I hope I don’t end up getting really drunk tonight or later this weekend (too late!); I’m overweight enough as it is.  I’m supposed to be a corporate servant tomorrow morning.  Too far behind on the road of Life to be further delayed by an unproductive hangover – woe is me.  Though I am fatigued at reaching this juncture.  So I toast to the lesson of History; she warns me that to rejuvenate with much needed water of the Truckee Meadows only translates to the impasse of the Blizzard at Donner Summit.  Though, my fathers did sell off the commonwealth  to the maritime municipalities of asphalt and petrochemicals… whiskey over water tonight… good thing I’m not driving, ha-ha-ha.

Sailors! Again a toast: To the Maritime Corporation of the United States!

It is about time the congress of my Liver votes on a formal declaration of war against my heart.  My liver has received enough abuse to date and my body shows for it.

Does anyone else feel like their social life is in ruins?  Isn’t our society a disaster?  My social circle feels mostly demolished, like the razing of an old church founded long before our time.  Can I get an Amen?  (Pa-lease, go back to Thebes, *finger-snap* *head-circle* *you go girlfriend*)

As much as I’d like to blame others.  I am the only one who screwed up my 20s.  “A” in calculus — “F” in life.  Fuck it, there is hope yet to invent a time machine… but for now I must wallow in my poor boy productions:  “Not been enough.

“If I could go back in time I would

If I could go back in time I should.”

Another irrational toast… Math… I should have studied more alchemy so I could summon Paladin Knights to kill this troll of Nihilism. I’m no Sir Gawain, and she’s still trapped in the high tower guarded by the Dragon.  Who can slay the Green Knight?  Beowulf, where are you?

Yes, I feel less, feel numb, feel much, better now, now that I am buzzed and lodged back up in my cerebrum.

The confession is long overdue, the first weekend of college, 2001, alone in the honors dorm, Lincoln Hall, I, not cool enough to be at the parties… I cried to the song, rest of my life.  Yes boys do cry.  Sixteen years later, I’ve learned that Arrested Development is a bitch!  But now, now I like to cry.

“Please rescue me before I go insane.”  I guess I feel in love with the wrong things.  Untrue the lies, make the lies, lies… give me my voice. Lend me your ears.

De Profundis.

Strangers! Merchants! Sailors! A toast! Ahoy mates, let’s get us some booty!  Odysseus, though I lack your adventurous spirit lend me your strong rope for I wish to hear the Sirens tonight.  Cheers, mates.  Ahoy!

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