The semi-brood in the corner last night cut my life into tiny bits. He then proceeded to fork at my parts, pushing them around on his plate. When all I really needed to say was, 'fuck off' to feed him full.
And then I had some much needed dance party debauchery with folks and friends.
Still though, the maniac ranting of the pre-funk is churning in my mind. How does a stranger look at another stranger and estimate their lives' worth? At a bar of all places? More pressing, why in the heat of hell did I sit through the whole of his musings? I do complain about my life in this town quite a bit, I am the first to admit, and I am not as happy as I'd like to be, this is not breaking news Eugene is small and all but I pull it together in the end. (I get by with a little help from my friends) I just hate being judged especially by the broot who comes to the bar to do just that. I hope he doesn't write me down as some cut of tendered meat, easy to rip a part while on the hunt. But hope is just hope and after I sat idly bye drinking my drink watching him consume me, I suppose hope is well out of the question. I hate when people pretend to philosophize when all they are actually doing is promoting their own fiction. Genius, my ass!
This is all spittle because I have yet to place what he said in any sort of sequence and I hate to be so negative. Sorry one dude who reads this thing
to lay this out on you. Tomorrow it will be rainbows and a love parade I promise.
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