Bunch Of Losers

I have this unwavering superstition that someday I’ll be something; I’ve had it since I’m three years old.

I remember playing in the sandpit and looking at all the other children and knowing I’d go places they would only dream. I knew it then; I know it now.

I remember going to class, sitting in the back, and observing the rest of the students with their stupid questions and arrogant attitudes. The time spent sitting in those pulpits was time I couldn’t be out there, discovering. My first taste of frustration.

I remember when all my friends were having their first children, bunch of losers, how are they going to move along with such an anchor to their dreams?

I remember when they all had to pay taxes, and they’d complain about the property tax going up every year. Who gives a fuck about property? Owning is slavery. You’re stuck in one place. Not free, like me.

I remember all of this. It’s easy to remember it when it’s the only thing you’ve got going for you. I have a box full of pictures, and business cards with private numbers written on them, and tattoos with amazing stories that I tell to an audience of none. I’m surrounded by empties and yearn to be full, but find nobody answering my calls.

Of course, it’s ten in the morning on a Tuesday, I’ve been drunk since last week and my friends have jobs and families to keep. I don’t blame them for not having the freedom to pick up the phone.

Bunch of losers.

Superstition

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