On the Move to LA and How Nice Guys Really Do Finish Last, for Awhile at Least, Until They Become Raving Homicidal Maniacs
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nnnkay. so far i fucking hate california. been here three weeks or so and nothing, zero, zilch, zippo is going right. i find myself walking arorund in a constant state of hairpin agitation, seething anger, and barely contained madness. could be it's a whole bevy of happenstances, or not so happenstances, which all serve in their sum total to make Jack a very, very angry boy.
people here are pretty much turning out the way i was once, by my now departed dearest, warned. shallow, callow, short on honor and long with their knives ready to plunge into my too-trusting back. on the surface, figuratively and physically, everything and everyone i've come across so far in LA has shown quite the penchant for not really being the same underneath, inside, where the blood and and mettle are.
my roommates and first and only friend so far are all female and seem to delight in finally having a boy with a quiet manner and willing strong back to lend to heavy chores, not to mention walking dogs, fixing computers and palm pilots, haggling on behalf of the roomies with the internet provider, repairing propane tanks and acting scary to shoo off the rabble asking for money outside some godawful downtown store selling potted plants for about 500% their cost. i've a feeling people here will see my kindness as weakness and seek to take advantage, taking and taking and taking and prepared only to give slight thanks when only friendship and someone to lean on is asked in return.
i used to think being rather handy with hardware, computer or the other kind, was an asset and it probably still is. i've just grown up around people bred with manners and a sense of honor when asking for help: they asked only when having little choice elsewise, they only asked for one thing at a time, and they made some sort of concessions in terms of how they dealt with you afterward (like maybe not freaking out when you leave your George Foreman grill on the kitchen counter overnight).
i'm beginning to think i should have moved in with that buncha ex-frat boys down in Manhattan Beach. at least the only thing i'd be asked to fix was really, really strong drinks.
rant rant rant rant. gah, boo, hiss, kill.
-pb
this is me right now:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
nnnkay. so far i fucking hate california. been here three weeks or so and nothing, zero, zilch, zippo is going right. i find myself walking arorund in a constant state of hairpin agitation, seething anger, and barely contained madness. could be it's a whole bevy of happenstances, or not so happenstances, which all serve in their sum total to make Jack a very, very angry boy.
people here are pretty much turning out the way i was once, by my now departed dearest, warned. shallow, callow, short on honor and long with their knives ready to plunge into my too-trusting back. on the surface, figuratively and physically, everything and everyone i've come across so far in LA has shown quite the penchant for not really being the same underneath, inside, where the blood and and mettle are.
my roommates and first and only friend so far are all female and seem to delight in finally having a boy with a quiet manner and willing strong back to lend to heavy chores, not to mention walking dogs, fixing computers and palm pilots, haggling on behalf of the roomies with the internet provider, repairing propane tanks and acting scary to shoo off the rabble asking for money outside some godawful downtown store selling potted plants for about 500% their cost. i've a feeling people here will see my kindness as weakness and seek to take advantage, taking and taking and taking and prepared only to give slight thanks when only friendship and someone to lean on is asked in return.
i used to think being rather handy with hardware, computer or the other kind, was an asset and it probably still is. i've just grown up around people bred with manners and a sense of honor when asking for help: they asked only when having little choice elsewise, they only asked for one thing at a time, and they made some sort of concessions in terms of how they dealt with you afterward (like maybe not freaking out when you leave your George Foreman grill on the kitchen counter overnight).
i'm beginning to think i should have moved in with that buncha ex-frat boys down in Manhattan Beach. at least the only thing i'd be asked to fix was really, really strong drinks.
rant rant rant rant. gah, boo, hiss, kill.
-pb
this is me right now:
cheech:
Wellll- that's not fantastic