It rained this morning. Had i been up to my usual habit, i wouldn't have known this. Rain stopped at 9:37am, or two hours before I wake up AT THE EARLIEST. I surveyed the dog poo mine field in my backyard. Eyesores with a putrid odor (i could only assume. cocaine had kept me up all night in exchange for sanity and my sense of smell). I thought about cleaning it up, but i visualized those little eyesores, mushy from the rain, turning into pudding in my hand; made by the indigenous canine of this terra. Flinch. I dropped the butt. I was so enamored by the little mounds of dog shit that I forgot why i came out here: to smoke a stogie. Now it punishes my negligence. If you play with fire, you get cancer. Assessing the damage to the satisfaction that i remained unmaimed, i just shook my hand, a reflexive impulse to singed fingertips, but also, in my own way, a gesticulation dismissing the meta appraisal of what I was doing. I just wanted to write last night. That's why i did the drugs. I haven't been able to write something genuine in eons. My life is just too boring...again. how do i know this? Because I have no good retort for "What's new?" I hate that question. More like filler. Yeah, that's just convo potpourri to uphold the didactic structure of conversation decorum. Place holders, ums, "well for me.."(another big turn off for a conversation; that other party dismissing everything you contributed to this artifice of a conversation to talk about themselves. typical. 21st century. with it, brah), what do you do? Dreck. That's why i don't go out which is why my life is bland, which is why i can't write, which is why this backyard is a reflection of my life. Staring at dog shit.
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