Ever wonder if somewhere, deep down inside your heart of hearts that never lies, you know exactly how your life is going to end up? More specifically, how you're going to kick the shit bucket?
I've had dreams where I get hit by a train in a car at night, fall down the stairs in my house, get electrocuted washing the dishes, get shot by a friend, strangled by an angel, and fall off the fucking CN tower. In that last one, I hit the ground. I was nine years old, and I felt great when I woke up.
A few years ago, the first time I wondered what I was going to be doing when I hit sixty, my next thought was, without hesitation, I'm not going to live that long. I guess, being young, I thought that was okay, doesn't mean anything special. I was an irrational, paranoid kid, and I'm just starting to get over that. I'm also an idiot with no educaction and a shitty job with shittier dental in Canada's Shit Town.
Being me doesn't offer too many bright tomorrows. At the most, the only thing I can hope for is that I get accepted to Ryerson in September for Radio Studies and hope that my voice and good looks will make me rich before I get hit by a train or meet some crazy dressed like an angel in a dark alley. This shit's fine with me.
This is okay with me. Compared with the other crazy shit in the world, I have no problem believing the 99.9 % of the brain I don't use wants me to be poor and has plans to make something kill me before 60. That's way too fucking old. If I haven't done anything good by 60, I've got bigger problems than homicidal angels and psycho friends.
I'm just glad this whole experience hasn't castrated my youthful optimism.
I've had dreams where I get hit by a train in a car at night, fall down the stairs in my house, get electrocuted washing the dishes, get shot by a friend, strangled by an angel, and fall off the fucking CN tower. In that last one, I hit the ground. I was nine years old, and I felt great when I woke up.
A few years ago, the first time I wondered what I was going to be doing when I hit sixty, my next thought was, without hesitation, I'm not going to live that long. I guess, being young, I thought that was okay, doesn't mean anything special. I was an irrational, paranoid kid, and I'm just starting to get over that. I'm also an idiot with no educaction and a shitty job with shittier dental in Canada's Shit Town.
Being me doesn't offer too many bright tomorrows. At the most, the only thing I can hope for is that I get accepted to Ryerson in September for Radio Studies and hope that my voice and good looks will make me rich before I get hit by a train or meet some crazy dressed like an angel in a dark alley. This shit's fine with me.
This is okay with me. Compared with the other crazy shit in the world, I have no problem believing the 99.9 % of the brain I don't use wants me to be poor and has plans to make something kill me before 60. That's way too fucking old. If I haven't done anything good by 60, I've got bigger problems than homicidal angels and psycho friends.
I'm just glad this whole experience hasn't castrated my youthful optimism.
I always dream that it's the next day. It's disturbing and confusing.