Sunday night, and I am listening to Saul Williams' pathos unfold into hip hop soliloquy in the comfort of the dark. It is 12:03 A.M and I shall go to bed soon, however first I find myself struck with the impetus to write. What will happen inside of this medium? Likely journaling, some poetics, much political incorrectness, and possibly a little mediocre prose. Will I write anything erotic? Perhaps. I have recently written a graphic short story about the sexual misadventures of an assiduous overseer and a barefoot country nymph. She’s only eighteen and recently divorced from a minister. He’s slightly older and vaguely resembles me.
My overseeing potential is unlimited, although my current occupational prospects are dim. Tomorrow brings forth another week of life, in which I will halfheartedly attempt to fetter my reality in the form of a job. Fuck, I’m broke, and luckily JM continues to lend me money and girls with sunburnt cleavage continue to buy drinks for me. Somebody even bought me an alligator sausage sandwich on the eve of St. Patrick’s day, due to the fact that before the check arrived I had already departed into the beer soaked seas of green.
Motherfucker, enough of the unraveling of my ego, the time is not yet ripe for self aggrandizing propaganda, this moment is prepared solely for me to abase myself without regret and without glee. And if you’re lucky tomorrow I’ll explode in radiant specters of dialectic extravaganza but right now you’re forced to wait; and muse about the insignificance of my words tumbling out from my caverns and tickling my pectorals and groveling at my knees.
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