So I've taken writing in as my adopted time hitman baby. So far it's taken out a few head honchos in the "hours" business.
I found this short story I wrote months and months ago, and I was thinking about adapting it into something more of a short book. It could easily just be a snippet of boredom, or the first page of bookdom!
Read if you please, opinionate whether positive or negative. I haven't been into writing much until this past year or so:
If my eye contact consisted of your eyes, and the nothingness in between, would there be purpose if you didn't give it? The frog stares back at my malcontent, the fact I'm still here is baffling to it, as I. We both know the pondering of things, the contemplation of a lilly pad floating off into nothing, is a waste of god given effort and time. As he jumps into his pond, I dive into my pondering. Enough of this charlatanism bullshit, let's get right down to business. There's not enough mental glue to stick every thought you want together in the exact way you want it. And if you think there is, then you're stuck shut with utter prententious brain sperm. And we all know spitters turn people into quitters. Hell there I go again, acting like I know something. Walking down this road 8 years without a single care except creeping out the locals I pass through. I never stay long. I never need to, nor am wanted. I've tried calling home before, that word's falsified within every aspect, unless you are referring to your dick in your hand. Home, you know where the heart is? Where a man dwells on his insecurities? Where the maintenence is a must, and a good foundation is necessary. How that relates to jerking off, hell who cares? The sad thing about writing anything, anymore, is everyones got so much to fucking say, no ones got the time to listen. I decided 8 years ago to, plain and simple, shut the fuck up. When asked to do something I pretend to be deaf. I pretend to be a mute. I act of down syndrome and spit towards the sun. I walk with a dog who talks for me if things NEED to be said, and in that case theres always a chuckle. Where has this taken me you might wonder? And hell at this point you probably, and shouldn't, care at all. I mean hell if you had half the mind of a dying pidgeon you'd know to tuck and roll, and you flail around like a fish in an oil spill. Think a little more clear and you'll lose this faster than your ego at witch burning. I've found through silence, that it is impossible to keep your damn mouth shut.
Sadly you can only pretend to be a deaf dumb mute for so long before a cop beats you with a night stick. Bastard hit me so good in the knee I couldn't help but curse the dick his mom got penetrated by. If ever a time for a post abortion, that cop shoulda got it, but murder charges stick harder then his billy club, and I let the pig have his day. I guess I'm lucky he let me "walk" away, but I learned that day a balance is needed in communication, because some fucktards are too simple to get it unless you're speakin their language.
8 years my ass. I couldn't make it 8 days before that badged prick caught me pissing in the back of a long john silver whistlin a sea shanty and flippin the sky the bird. He was dumb enough to think a mute couldn't whistle, But apparently his stupidity called my bluff. He decided taking me in was a waste of everyones time, and he needed practice on his back stroke. One good club was all it took for me to waive my 5th amendment rights, and then he didn't take kindly when I insinuated a back rub, and took kindly to busting my legs out from under me while whistlin dixie. Next time I go to long john silvers in nashville I'm stroking my cock in the bathroom and wiping it on the mirror. Bible belt fucks. Not too mention he ruthlessly clubbed my dog and sang the national anthem. Fella claimed " If you can't vote die". Frightened as an animal could be, and worse for the weather, the pup managed to stagger to a better resting spot, lacking of the stench of grease and pavement.
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