Not quite where I want to be
in my life,
Sitting in restaraunts recommended
by people I’m not even friends with
eating food I don’t even like.
I’m not quite where I’d like to be
in my life.
Watching football games religiously
when sports really aren’t my thing,
eating nachos with queso dip
when I know I’m lactose intolerant.
Drowning that seventh Sam Adams
when I don’t really want to finish all of it.
Lying wide awake at night
nowhere near quite where I’d like to be
in my life.
Enslaved by social networking
so that technically I’m half computer,
dreaming that I should get a droid installed in my head for the future.
Everything I have to say,
Facebook friends requested
and people I don’t like stay friended
my entire life implemented
through these text messages I’m sending.
Social outings in clothes that don’t fit quite right,
not even close to having something
that might be close to where I’d like to be
in my life.
Hipster chicks with thick rimmed glasses
and striped clothes and hair worked to look careless
loving on guys in skinny jeans
who don’t even know what it means
when they say that things are too mainstream
because they don’t realize that they are.
Talking to pretty girls with hourglass figures
their tipsy smiles widening
when for real, they’re not my type.
As if they’d fit in to the unwritten blueprint
of my life.
Orgasms are kind of like snoregasms
in that they are predictable and I’m bored
in a world that I hardly understand.
Everyone fucks more than I do quite honestly,
I’m just putting it modestly,
why chase a desire that’s never sated lacking modesty?
This is probably me just being a Debbie Downer,
sex is just sex,
once you get past the glam of it,
kind of meh,
but I partake it.
The point of climax is so archaic
why even say it?
I’d be addicted to pornography,
but it’s so god damn formulaic.
You can be creative if you like to, I do sometimes,
but essentially it’s just stroke, repeat,
done for the night.
And while a lot of people think that that’s not doing it right.
Sexually, I hope I haven’t come to the end of this fright
I call my life.
And it’s not that I’m not a quitter,
I’m just stubborn,
unwilling to budge so that maybe I could try something new.
Or am I just lazy? That’s more likely,
but it seems
that I could be a drama queen,
and that not even in my dreams
could I find out what it means
to find inner peace.
If I am truthful, I’m so in love with my inner beast
that it really doesn’t even matter.
I think cumulatively that makes it sadder
that this just feels so right.
All I do is write,
and just to spite my spite
I’m kind of just right where I want to be in my life….
I think it’s really funny honestly. The more I read it, the funnier it gets, but I feel like if I read it too long, it might get depressing…