Man, I can't do anything. Not going to uni, and not doing much apart from socialising means I have like, no creativity at all. Well, considerably less than usual. I start writing, and stop after 400 words. I write sentences, but the sum of these parts is less than the whole. So annoying:
This woman offers to stab me. I ask no? and then wonder why its a question. She offers again, this time more emphatically. I actually dont have any money I say, maybe repeating myself. I can see her fingering a knife in her pocket. Maybe its a knife. The sheer simplicity of this confuses me somehow. I walk away and she says bludgeon along with a lot of other words which may or may not be bludgeon as well.
I wonder how she knows the word bludgeon. Shes dirty.
Later on Im getting off my train and I notice that every one is walking in the same direction as me but nobodys going to the same place. This is what passes as profound to me now. I smoke a cigarette and my throat tastes like what I imagine sandpaper might taste like. Ive smoked maybe twenty three today. Its dark so my cigarette looks brighter and redder and I wish I could start fires if I wanted to.
I buy chewing gum at a 7-11 from a man who I bet has masturbated at least twice before coming to work.
Waiting for a taxi and chewing gum and wishing my breath didnt smell like minty shit, and a big white guy with tattoos and a beanie seems to consider talking to me but decides against it. Am I too middle-class? I wonder; if I work on a production line but make a lot of money doing it, am I working class? Am I blue collar or white collar? What production line would I work on?
A taxi comes and we drive and on the way to my place a taxi in front of us swerves back and forth across the road, trying to stop us getting past. My taxi driver doesnt mind, and he drives on to the other side of the road, going against the traffic, and he drives past the swerving taxi. Inside I see a woman who, for the three seconds my head is turned towards her, screams and her eyes give off the kind of terror you cant fake. Her friend seems calm or dead, or calm.
We should pull over I say.
Its ok, my driver says, hes a driver. I know him.
Did you see that girl? I ask.
The driver doesnt answer, and he takes me home. I think whatever, but I dont really mean it. I call the police and they ignore me and I cant say Im surprised.
The End.
Mornings inspire hatred in me. But I like the sun.
This woman offers to stab me. I ask no? and then wonder why its a question. She offers again, this time more emphatically. I actually dont have any money I say, maybe repeating myself. I can see her fingering a knife in her pocket. Maybe its a knife. The sheer simplicity of this confuses me somehow. I walk away and she says bludgeon along with a lot of other words which may or may not be bludgeon as well.
I wonder how she knows the word bludgeon. Shes dirty.
Later on Im getting off my train and I notice that every one is walking in the same direction as me but nobodys going to the same place. This is what passes as profound to me now. I smoke a cigarette and my throat tastes like what I imagine sandpaper might taste like. Ive smoked maybe twenty three today. Its dark so my cigarette looks brighter and redder and I wish I could start fires if I wanted to.
I buy chewing gum at a 7-11 from a man who I bet has masturbated at least twice before coming to work.
Waiting for a taxi and chewing gum and wishing my breath didnt smell like minty shit, and a big white guy with tattoos and a beanie seems to consider talking to me but decides against it. Am I too middle-class? I wonder; if I work on a production line but make a lot of money doing it, am I working class? Am I blue collar or white collar? What production line would I work on?
A taxi comes and we drive and on the way to my place a taxi in front of us swerves back and forth across the road, trying to stop us getting past. My taxi driver doesnt mind, and he drives on to the other side of the road, going against the traffic, and he drives past the swerving taxi. Inside I see a woman who, for the three seconds my head is turned towards her, screams and her eyes give off the kind of terror you cant fake. Her friend seems calm or dead, or calm.
We should pull over I say.
Its ok, my driver says, hes a driver. I know him.
Did you see that girl? I ask.
The driver doesnt answer, and he takes me home. I think whatever, but I dont really mean it. I call the police and they ignore me and I cant say Im surprised.
The End.
Mornings inspire hatred in me. But I like the sun.
I think I would classify you as working class. Since you actually do work instead of sitting in an office in your yuppie suit and staring at your secretary's legs all day.