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?
