Mistahsojourner - A Boy Coming To Terms

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I’ve only been doing this thing for a week. Somehow it feels longer than that. 

I feel like an itch has been scratched. I feel like I ain’t got no itches to scratch today. None. Is that a sign of trouble? 

I guess boredom, shit. No. This isn’t boredom. I don’t know what this is. I swear I’ve been aware of a keener sense of myself lately. No matter how keen your sense gets, you still find that your sense isn’t all the way calibrated. There are uncharted waters within you. 

Maybe this is just being chill. Maybe this is how most people are. 

There is another state of being I sometimes find myself in though it is rare. This is the state of being unfuckwittable. I’ll try and describe that to you some other day because right now there is no fucking way I’m going to be able to do that justice. 

I can’t do most things justice. 

I wasn’t even going to try this today. I was just going to leave it but that seemed like a bad idea. 

I sit here at my desk. Daily Mix 3 playlist from Spotify is blaring and I keep hitting repeat on a particular song. I don’t know why. Not in Love by Crystal Castles. Sometimes I kinda nod my head to it and sometimes I low-key white boy dance to it. The words don’t really speak to me. I can’t really speak to the beat or the musical qualities of this composition because I’m laughably unqualified. 

I find myself thinking of ending montages in TV episodes. Ya know, shots of the characters with little or no dialogue in the closing minutes of the episode as some song plays. 

Yeah. That’s it. Drive safe. 

I sorta tried. Sorta. 

Maybe I'll try bearing my soul on this fucking blog to strangers who might happen by cuz that's how lonely I really am.

One day 

I can awaken from the dream

and I’ll be a YouTube star. 

My idiosyncrasies will be viral 

and my soul will be trademarked. 

Maybe I can buy myself a seat 

on The Muskrat’s space boat to Mars 

and I can suffocate 

with the richest 

and the sexiest 

while the people left behind watch 

while the minds that coded all the killer apps 

die well-dressed. 

Maybe I’ll upload 

in some time, some place 

that’s warm 

and that ain’t so cruel 

and that’s broken in some way 

that’s easier to fix. 

Maybe one day 

I can awaken from the dream 

as a man 

who sorta knows what to do 

sorta knows the truth 

sorta knows how to love. 

God damn it. It’s just too hot these days. Everything will melt into nothing some day. Some of us will be left alive while we watch the rich and the powerful launch themselves into space to escape this rock. 

Or maybe not. Who knows? As the great Yogi Berra said, “It’s hard to make predictions, especially about the future.” 

My brain is fuzzy. My brain is like a huge bag of cotton balls. I just want to go into a dim room and drift off into dreamland. Maybe I’ll see you there. I’m making my peace with this day. I’m ready to say goodbye to it. Just let it go wherever days go to die. This day was unremarkable. It did not offend me but I sure as hell will not leave flowers on its grave. Of course, Monday will pull a Lazarus and come forth again. Jesus is too righteous to take bribes.

I’ve failed at a lot of things. That’s not me beating up on myself. That’s just a simple statement of fact. I haven’t really tried sincerely at a lot of things. I’ve half-assed a lot of things. 

Debating is for nerds. I can’t do it. 

I feel like I’m barely not a normie. That’s a weird place to find yourself. The weirdos weird me out way too fucking much and the normies just fucking bore me. 

Actually, most everyone bores me. Married folk. Single folk. Serial killer groupies. Lana Del Rey fans. Trekkies. Gamers. BDSM freaks. 

WHAT THE HELL YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT, MAN? YOU DON’T TALK TO ANYBODY. 

Just vibin’, man. Relax. Just playing with these here words. That’s all I’m doing. It’s like that guy who sits alone in his apartment and strums his guitar.

Dad bod and the mind of a philosopher king.

It’s.. hey. I don’t really think I’m a king. It’s me being  braggadocious. 

White fear weaponized runs the machine. 

On a summer night in mid-July

the asphalt cools from the day’s baking 

and a man recovers from a day that ends in y. 

Legs crossed on the floor like when he was a kid

Window is ajar and the breeze is sweet mercy. 

Mercy hard to come by 

even in mid-July 

if you live long enough. 

I lay in a semi-dark room and listen to Hulk Hogan's old walk-in theme "Real American."

This song is America.

"I am a real American. Fight for the rights of every man. I am a real American. Fight for what's right. Fight for your life."

If only.

I also scroll through the normie politics subreddit and people are wondering if we are one violent incident away from this country exploding like a Roman candle.

I see it.

Everything is so sinister and mean.

Sloop John B plays in my ear.

"This is worst trip I've ever been on."

We're on that trip, America.

You gotta know why you're doing something, don't you?