A Cold Butt
It's not that I'm unhappy. There's just nothing to be particularly happy about. So why look it? I've got no one to impress. I'll look as unhappy as I want
My balls itch. That is neither displeasing nor terribly exciting, which seems to be the story of my life at this point. Itchy balls. The itch isn't bad. It's obnoxious, mildly frustrating, but if I had to i could live with it. And if I were to reach down and scratch it, sure it would stop the itch but my fingers would smell like balls. Itchy balls or stinky fingers?
The bench that I am sitting on is cold. Consequently, so is my butt. Do I hate the winter? No. I hate having a cold butt. And the crunch that my boots make when I walk in the snow. And the way I can see my breath when I exhale. Something about the way it disappears so quickly make me uneasy. Or there's the way my boogers freeze up and stick together when I breathe through my nose. And I hate little old ladies who take their little dogs on little walks in their little knitted sweaters. Sweaters aren't for dogs. Dogs were born with built in sweaters. I swear to God, the next sweater wearing rat-on-a-string that I see shivering and shaking with its embarrassing worm of a tail tucked between its legs gets thrown under a taxi.
But I don't hate the winter. The change of scenery is nice. There is a strange beauty in the silent and seemingly willing death that everything comes to at wintertime. I don't know if I would be able to so easily part with my leaves if I were a tree. Especially here in the city.
How much of my life is spent here waiting for the fucking bus?
I had friends, back in highschool, with goals. Realistic goals. I wonder how many of them are as lost as I am.
It's not that I'm unhappy. There's just nothing to be particularly happy about.
My balls itch. That is neither displeasing nor terribly exciting, which seems to be the story of my life at this point. Itchy balls. The itch isn't bad. It's obnoxious, mildly frustrating, but if I had to i could live with it. And if I were to reach down and scratch it, sure it would stop the itch but my fingers would smell like balls. Itchy balls or stinky fingers?
The bench that I am sitting on is cold. Consequently, so is my butt. Do I hate the winter? No. I hate having a cold butt. And the crunch that my boots make when I walk in the snow. And the way I can see my breath when I exhale. Something about the way it disappears so quickly make me uneasy. Or there's the way my boogers freeze up and stick together when I breathe through my nose. And I hate little old ladies who take their little dogs on little walks in their little knitted sweaters. Sweaters aren't for dogs. Dogs were born with built in sweaters. I swear to God, the next sweater wearing rat-on-a-string that I see shivering and shaking with its embarrassing worm of a tail tucked between its legs gets thrown under a taxi.
But I don't hate the winter. The change of scenery is nice. There is a strange beauty in the silent and seemingly willing death that everything comes to at wintertime. I don't know if I would be able to so easily part with my leaves if I were a tree. Especially here in the city.
How much of my life is spent here waiting for the fucking bus?
I had friends, back in highschool, with goals. Realistic goals. I wonder how many of them are as lost as I am.
It's not that I'm unhappy. There's just nothing to be particularly happy about.
posted by AHaynes at 8:10 PM
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