I do all sorts of things when I'm bored, I fake myself some interest in the things people talk about these days, although it's always quite the same, I smile, wave, and do that thing called a handshake. I run my mouth like a beggar when she comes to face a king, and stand by the shop windows, looking at beautiful things. Of course I know beauty is momentary, much like pain, and I know that in these conversations I have nothing much to gain. But boredom is the only the ache I can't seem to take, so can you give this poor fellow a f**king break?
I am going to stop complaining about complaining and quit my hurrying, I'm going to stop smoking too many cigarettes and being easily impressed by every smooth talker with a clear set plan. And when they ask me about mine, I'm going to lie and say I don't know, even though I do know, but then again it's the same thing, don't you think? I'm going to make jokes and stop being afraid of people dying, and all their problems and my own. I'm going to face my own failures to comprehend this world I apologize for, and surrender to the perfect ecstasy of blissful stupidity.
I do what writers do best, I stretch the truth and paint it the color of the liar's lips. Oh, she must hate me, Honesty, the woman I chase after. And when I drink, it's to her, so that she might lead me into some place I haven't been; and I have been oh so many places, except between the tender thighs of good old Honesty.
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