I like nice people. Even if I think you’re naive and dumb, I like that it’s nice. I like when you match your word to your actions or goals in life. It’s never really a secret to me how I want or need to behave in service to some proposition or idea. I know what’s nice. I know what’s good. I know when you’re fucking it up.
Let’s beat it again, why you’re my friend. I might be one of your 1000. You’re one of my 70 or so. I think the world doesn’t get better if you don’t figure out your own “little” world. That’s the trick though, right? It’s not little. I fucking hate everybody. If I don’t hate you, you’re of dramatically more consequence than anyone with their idiot heads could ever guess. I need to figure out how to get to YOU.
I think this is one of the ground floor conceptions of my potential brilliance that is rarely if ever acknowledged. Consider that when you think about your circles.
I know I bitch. I know I bitch a lot. I know that I can take something quasi-innocuous and blow it up for months or years. Not the point. The point is, YOU ARE THE IMPORTANT VARIABLES.
I don’t like or love accidentally. I don’t front. I don’t play. I’ve lived the consequences of my own disposition. I’m not theory. The real fucking magic is what happens when you snort me.
If I don’t die unexpectedly soon, I absolutely promise to show you.
What I like about me is the capacity to trust that you rarely find. Like, I trust my dad. I trust no one else. Even people I thought I could trust I do not where I thought it counted. But me? I’ve always been trustworthy of me. I don’t have to make the caveat “trust you to be as you are” as I have for other people. I know me. I know what I need to see and feel. I know you’ll be as excited as I am when I make shit manifest.
And I guess that’s enough. It is sad. But I guess it’s enough. I want more for you than you do. I want the world. You want...middle class mediocrity. I hate you for that, but I love you for all the shit that’s good that I want to put on blast and render what I hate about you mute.
I complain like it’s years. It’s days. It’s weeks. I’m on the brink of the start of myriad worlds of meaning any number of things. Guys. Wake the fuck up. All it’s ever been is right now. It won’t just be blogs and drunk ramblings. It’ll be my ass on the phone. It’s soon. It’s way sooner than you think. Are we friends? Does 16 year old version of you like you? Want to create with you? Want to invest in you? We’re dead tomorrow, get it through your thick fucking skulls.
I’m not even that angry, I’m just desperate. I want you to get it, and when you don’t, I guess it’ll just be me and Hatsam or Byron drunk begrudging you. So stupid and such a waste.
