Better Than Death

Hangovers are amazing.

I enjoy
everything
about them:
the puking,
the headaches,
the bodyaches,
and
going to work
with one,
makes 'em
that much better.

I wish
I was hungover
all the time.

Some people
would rather be
dead
than to endure
the torture
that comes after
drinking all night
and through the next
day,
shot after
shot,
beer after
beer.

NOT ME.

If I'm alive
in the morning,
then give me
some aspirin
and coffee and
bring
it
on.

Yeah,
you bitch,
bring
it
on.

Embrace the Mystery

I should have worked less.

I wish I could have spent more time with my family.

I regret not making up with her.

I wish I never took him for granted.

Why am I so alone?

I could have done more with my time.

I spent too much of my life in front of the tv.

I would have done something significant if I wasn't constantly on my computer.

I could have had a meaningful conversation with a stranger, if I wasn't so consumed with texting.

Should a, would a, could a,
all the same
last thoughts
of dead fools.

None of these thoughts will enter
my mind
when the lights
go out.

If I die young,
if I die old,
if I die violently,
it's the only way
I was meant
to go out.

That's perfectly fine with me.

There's absolutely nothing
we can do about it.

Stop trying,
quit complaining,
forget your regrets,
spit on your sorrows,
embrace the mystery
hidden inside
each and every moment.

Now.

Visiting Soon

Politics is in the air.

My eyes, ears, and dreams
are being suffocated
by this bullshit.

I already
have enough on my plate
to even
begin
to give a fuck about
who's gonna be
the next president
or mayor.

Either way,
we're fucked.

What matters?

They say love...

The madness
of everybody's
obsession
only eats away
at my flesh.

I'd rather die alone.

Others say money...

The debt collectors
haunt me.

They want me
to live in the streets
and drink my own piss
for supper.

No thank you.

What does really matter
to me?

I've been trying
to figure that out
all my life.

Maybe I'll take up
male prostitution
or maybe
I'll come to your house
and...

Such Shit

He was short,
extremely shy,
and pretty wide.

He smelled of petroleum jelly.

Not exactly
what I was expecting a
heavy weight champion
to look like.

Well,
he used to be one.

Anyway,
the whole
situation
was weird.

It's always bizarre
when you meet a
celebrity,
especially one as infamous as
Mike Tyson.

What do you say to the guy?

I mean,
he has this
ridiculous
tattoo on his face
and he could kick
the living shit out of me
if I said
anything
about IT,
to top it off,
he just got out of
Wal-Mart,
of all places.

I mean
seriously,
what the fuck
do you say
to these people?

Television
and actors
and actresses
are GODS,
IMMORTAL.

To most.

Such shit.

The Last Option

Poisoned
by everyday
life.

They even say
love
can make me
forget.

It only
makes it
worse.

My woman can
barely
afford to take the bus
to see me.

When we do see
each other,
all we want to do is
drink,
to try and
forget
our sorrows,
but we just end up
screaming our love
away.

Taking the madness
of the world
out
on each other.

There's no rest
for us.

Only struggle.

We need a break.

We need
a cure
for this
poison.

It's not going to happen.

They're looking
for new ways
to poison
us
everyday
and they're very
creative.

We might as well
quit trying,
quit fighting
all the time,
and start
celebrating.

It seems like
the only
good
option
left.

Don't you agree?

My Grandmother's Cry

Never
have I ever
heard
her cry
before.

It was so sad
and hopeless.

The phone had just
rang,
it was someone
from the hospital.

My aunt died.

"They said,
she was getting
better."

She didn't have a chance.

None of us do.

We all
have to watch
each other
die.

We have to live
with these tragedies
for the rest
of our lives.

Not me.

From now on,
I'm unplugging the phone
and if someone
dies,
I'll pretend as if
they have just moved
to Mars
and have gotten themselves
an alien queen
with 12 vaginas.

That way,
I'll never
have to ever
hear her cry
again.