thepantychrist

I sat on the yard sale couch in the warehouse, picking lint and crusted blood from my nose. There was a hitch in my chest, something expectant, the same feeling I used to get as a little kid waiting in line for some dilapidated rollercoaster in a parking lot carnival. The multi-press machine hissed and clicked in the background, punching ink on to tee-shirts, the heat from the oven baking the back of my neck golden. And I couldnt help but smile. Twenty-three days into my twenty-fourth year and I had done nothing worth mentioning.
I sit here now, in the sweltering heat of my efficiency apartment wiping moths off my computer screen and digging for some kind of word to describe the stupid, optimistic grin that keeps crawling across my face and I can only call it Being Okay. This is my useless, unimportant life. This is doing the bare minimum to be human. This is being unwashed, half drunk, nicotine fingered, blue-eyed acceptance. This is being okay.
In the morning I will go out into the world and do the same thing I did today. And tomorrow I will go out and do the same thing I did yesterday. Routine, schedule.
Ten minutes from now I will get up, dig a cigarette out of a crushed cardboard box and step out on to the balcony. Ill look up and blow smoke at the stars. The moon will be the same full moon where you are. I might ask for something better. I might petition whatever secret chiefs I care to believe in today for something bigger, more important?
A clean house, a true love, an extra inch of height, a fatter wallet, an easy roll, a leather couch, a something.
The summer cicadas could give a shit. Ill scratch a tattoo.
Right now my heart is a cello note. Right now Im under-achieving. Right now Im every thing Ive ever done. Every word spoken, every drawing drawn, every single bite of food swallowed, every fuck, every laugh, every day of being okay.
The flies are drawn into this room, not because everything is shit, but because everything is dying. Natural Progression. Spring to summer. Yadda Yadda.
I can smell Acetone on my pants, on my hands. It smells like-
Hi, my name is C, how are you?