Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Part one of my story:

It shall become a magnun opus and flood the streets with literary puns and quips.

A long and tainted time has passed since I felt the need to delibertely condition my mind to swell in angst. I mean, shit. This has already started off on the wrong foot. Introductions come before complaints. Least that's the impression I was raised under. My name is Franklin Billingsly. The third. Or turd. Or whatever fucking number spawn you wish me to be. In all honesty what you walk away with from this conversation is irrelevant. In fact it's more than that; it's unnecessary. For you see gents and germs your short termed narrator is not even here. Hasn't been in some time. Franklin was just some label I thought would land on a sense of believability. I've been dead for nearly thirty years now. Or have I? It's hard scratching down numerals when you can't feel shit. So ok, again fucking up is a habit of mine so if you've grown weary of attempting to follow the linear storyline being presented...stop. No one can link the phrases I'm about to regurgitate for you. Not even I. And I live through the damn things. Here's all you need to know: I was and am probably still a fiend. In all senses of the word. I drank, smoked, shot, snooted, you name it. If it released dopamines in the human mind I was in love.

1 comment:

  1. pretty intense, it gives a feeling of rage