Not role model material. Moi. Nearing the end of my line and that’s usual. Some people out there think if you just put it out there, our hopes/dreams, it’s out and about in the universe, and who knows..? It’s something typically let out with a side of prayer/pleading (sorry, i’m unclear on the difference.) because you’re gambling… believing. We hail from different regions so we might cope a little different. what? Don’t have that kind of conscience to encourage others to believe, though, had to run tests and mods. Here we are in this galactic quadrant, dawn to dusk looped, and once in a while, countries war, traject probes on comets, Amelia Earhart, the 60’s, a man had a dream once and a call to arms for civil rights is still ringing and peeps are iffy about penises in the girls room. Everybody copes all the same, just in different spaces because we have to look out for ourselves first and foremost. It’s not making an impact on the world and imprinting your shoe on a drying sidewalk. Yeah, kind of have to save the world now because, well, let’s just put that near the top of the list and see how far we can get. Go team, earthlings! I’m serious. I just made it sound corny because saying it aloud is different. I’m not a role model. Maybe a foot model, I got feet. Weird feet. Fetish level stuff.
The crap that swirls around my head reads poetically and sounds deep, so naturally I inflate that to throw at women by appearing deep and burdened so they can dig me back up. While that’s true, it never works and my stuff reads at least somewhat witty. I got that, at least I got that. It makes me feel better than you. I don’t chug gin on the daily anymore so I have to trick myself into staying alive. Like how I try tricking women into talking to me. Never works. I live, if it can be called that, with my parents, pay no rent and spend money on illegal drugs in place of those I’d get legally if I was medically insured like a pu*sy. Copa Cabana! I can’t get my pecker working normally for a while now and keeps me from confidently trying to meet someone instead of just being a weirdo. I’m a regular at the f*cking friendzone. I bring flowers and wash behind my ears when I masturbate, it’s the closest I can get to dating without booking a table. I’ve never wanted to book a table at a mediocre place more than I do now. I’m basically a virgin, but I don’t know if they’re treated better than I treat myself. Or a pool cleaner, I don’t know how much better they’re treated than I am either. I’d suggest a virgin pool-cleaner as a role model over me by default.
Role models are people you try to emulate. Like a molding cast you stuff all your experiences into so it can shape you into something that appears to have their shit together. I don’t know who you are, a curious sort if you’re this far along. The things swirling around my head gather momentum and it takes everything apart in terms of emotional and neurological stability, the command center that balances and regulates my stability goes offline, everybody screams panics and the city is in ruins. It’s never the same when rebuilding, but I don’t even remember what the original looked like. I just rebuild. But that once in a while smooth one-liner that pops up while I’m cleaning, I shine it up, nurture it, and I’m alive again. I forgot who I was before I got here and that’s that. Then the sentence breathes resuscitate some old part of me submerged. That pisses me off somewhere. It pulses a shape of my existense. Like all the pieces of Mr. Potato head scattered and waiting to be reunited. I lost a boot once. I don’t know how to fix this place… my study/sleep area, my lack of vitamin D and potassium, my credit score. I’m fairly up to date on my pop culture references but don’t have the drive to socialize. And I definitely don’t know how to fix the things that went another way than I’d have liked. I want to make up for lost time like the next person but I’m not yet ready. I’m generally chivalrous, but even that’s chipping away because it’s a sweater and it gets warm around noon. One time I gave half my money away to a homeless guy. It wasn’t much, but I needed it. An old part of me smiled somewhere. I used to make fun of hippies. I had my own flower power, like sunflowers leave no scent. But I left it in my coat pocket, turned to dust, but it didn’t matter.
Things aren’t like the movies because we watch the movies. It shifts in real life because we fret easily over misunderstandings and it’s easy to blow the proportions. Squashing beefs or old grudges is hard to approach and it’s more convenient to just not attempt it. circulate next bff. In the movies, you kinda see where it’s headed unless it’s some arthouse piece. In life, we generally have the storyboard in our heads, except have to improv the plot, script, budget and breaks for evermore. Cast/crew; family/friends. Your life airs live on location. Sometimes we play back scenes that keeps us rolling through hard times because your friends and family back you up. They’re right there with you and you gotta pull yourself off the ground because. Still not that guy that’s gonna say, “believe you can do it!” Tons of those, just elsewhere and of bred better maybe. Because sometimes we remember that time where nothing went right anymore and your palms sweaty palms becomes a thing and don’t show up for air. A future comeback always an option. You can’t edit anything out of life, they happened. The extras, bonus features, easter eggs and even director/producer commentary is going on. It’s not like a movie. Movies could be like role models. Movies and virgin pool boys. I watched Mission Impossible: II twice in a week once, nobody cared. Same storyboard as Face/Off. Same director. Vanilla Sky.
Yep. I never get the girl in the end, and the costumes are usually snug. I didn’t aim mine, come to think of it. A role model…