The lights are growing dim Otto. I know a life of crime has led me to this sorry fate, and yet, I blame society. Society made me what I am.
I'd have to blame that bitch from Clinton. I don't know her name. I don't know what she looks like. I don't know for certain she was a bitch. I confess all the information I know about her is second hand and from an unreliable source. I've known the source to be extremely unreliable, irrational, unstable, and a variety of other undesirable traits which make him about the only person to survive my friendship for over thirty years. Why else would an aging hippy start haning out with a teenage punk? The bitch, that's why. The aging hippy had quit staying up all night, smoking dope, and reading existenstial philosophy. He got a job and a fiancee. He got her home early so he could get up early, go to work, and make his nut to provide for her. She promptly went back out, hit the bars, and banged who ever was there. Or so I was told after I was asked what I was reading.
A biography of Jim Morrison. What else would a dissaffected, rebellious, small-town punk be reading? While not rich, we were one of the early homes to get cable television. The gratitious sex and violence clashed with our conservative, Catholic household, but for a dislocated Chicago house-wife, it was a lifeline back to 'the city'. Besides disjointed nudity on the scrambled premium channel for me it meant 'Apocalypse Now'. While Charlie Sheen famously breaks down now in a campy way in real life, watching him break down on screen in Vietnam was just the role model a self-destructive teen who believed he really had it bad really needed. The movie led to the song and the song led to talking about music which led to the angsty teen and the mid-life crisis hanging out in waffle houses after of night of him not drinking and me ingesting whatever was handy.
Absent a financee, he found himself with a lot of time, money, and loneliness. He didn't turn to me for loneliness. Like a lot of men, he turned to a female surrogate. Some men turn to strippers. Some hookers. Bartenders. He turned to waitresses. I was just a necessary appliance to sit across in the booth. I mean, eventually, we started to have a good time together. But initially, it was just a compromise between losers. Years later, we both admitted we probably really needed each other more than we let on and probably help keep each other safe, adjusted, and alive. That why I and everyone else suffering from hotel room insomnia seeks out a 24 hour diner when the drinking, exercise, or masturbation doesn't work.
I'd have to blame that bitch from Clinton. I don't know her name. I don't know what she looks like. I don't know for certain she was a bitch. I confess all the information I know about her is second hand and from an unreliable source. I've known the source to be extremely unreliable, irrational, unstable, and a variety of other undesirable traits which make him about the only person to survive my friendship for over thirty years. Why else would an aging hippy start haning out with a teenage punk? The bitch, that's why. The aging hippy had quit staying up all night, smoking dope, and reading existenstial philosophy. He got a job and a fiancee. He got her home early so he could get up early, go to work, and make his nut to provide for her. She promptly went back out, hit the bars, and banged who ever was there. Or so I was told after I was asked what I was reading.
A biography of Jim Morrison. What else would a dissaffected, rebellious, small-town punk be reading? While not rich, we were one of the early homes to get cable television. The gratitious sex and violence clashed with our conservative, Catholic household, but for a dislocated Chicago house-wife, it was a lifeline back to 'the city'. Besides disjointed nudity on the scrambled premium channel for me it meant 'Apocalypse Now'. While Charlie Sheen famously breaks down now in a campy way in real life, watching him break down on screen in Vietnam was just the role model a self-destructive teen who believed he really had it bad really needed. The movie led to the song and the song led to talking about music which led to the angsty teen and the mid-life crisis hanging out in waffle houses after of night of him not drinking and me ingesting whatever was handy.
Absent a financee, he found himself with a lot of time, money, and loneliness. He didn't turn to me for loneliness. Like a lot of men, he turned to a female surrogate. Some men turn to strippers. Some hookers. Bartenders. He turned to waitresses. I was just a necessary appliance to sit across in the booth. I mean, eventually, we started to have a good time together. But initially, it was just a compromise between losers. Years later, we both admitted we probably really needed each other more than we let on and probably help keep each other safe, adjusted, and alive. That why I and everyone else suffering from hotel room insomnia seeks out a 24 hour diner when the drinking, exercise, or masturbation doesn't work.