Complacent with Shit.

It happened. Enough life inspiration to write something insightful. So on the road this week I ended up heading down to the hotel restaurant, a nice Irish themed chain. I sat down, ordered, ate, and then I picked up one of the sogging "pub chips" and started flapping it back and forth. It made me smirk a little devilish grin.

I realized from the moment I decided to go to this restaurant I knew this was going to happen just a mediocre experience. And now you are probably thinking, well of course you dipshit, it is a chain restaurant the experience is not going to be good. As every aspect of the experience was either odd or mildly unpleasant or completeley emotionless I realized that I was actually satisfied with this, it had met my every expectation.

I may not have saw Jesus in that soggy chip, but I saw a real issue. Why should I settle for this? Would I be a complete ass to tell the server he is fucking creepier than me? slow the fuck down, do not mumble your over repeated phrases to me, dont be a fucking zombie. When my burger comes out with a semi-stale bun and burnt and dry patty with a side of soggy ass fried chips and they ask, "how is everything?", should I say it is fine, because really it is what I have come to expect, and they did not miss the boat at all.

I believe this is symptom of a deeper issue ingraining itself into our culture. I will call it complacency with shit, or maybe shit complacency. Just the lowered expectation to the point you do not realize the fact what you are doing is totally shitty.

Make sense?

Drowning.

Timidly I type away, afraid anyone I know may find my thoughts online.  It's a shame.  Silently I view the kids with long hair and beards and fresh ideas and music and beer breath.  I can see the six shooter pistols tattooed on my forearms and my pieced together rat chop, but you cannot.

My blogs start like all my nights when I was that age,  the idea was right, the energy was right, but it quickly turns sour.  Ending with me, from quiet to belligerent, the words I want to say spitting out and slurred not eloquent or cool, finally jello vomit in a dirty old shower stall in a basement somewhere.

I just wanted you to smile, and whisper jokes in my ear, and me talking about meaningful ideas, but instead I swore and drank and sulked and cried myself to sleep because of loneliness.

I'm trying to take down the machine from the inside, but it's winning.  The numbness overcoming, I can feel my neurons firing the transistors in my brain, running the code someone programed in there. My fingers controlled by small servo motors,  my words transmitted on data lines, beeps and blips, mechanization.  There has to be more then tit jokes, consumption, and expansion and greed.  Right?

It's About Blogging Time.

Here it is. My first random post into the blogoshere.  Lies, I used to have a myspace and would post randomness sometimes. This is my first blogger blog. As you can tell by list of blogs. Yes this may be as exciting as I get.