Cigarettes and Coffee

ive recently caught a case of writers block. its the most annoying and frustrating thing know to writers and bloggers everywhere. you know that feeling when you have an idea in your head, but you just cant seem to write it down. my remedy for writers block? a gallon's worth of coffee, an ipod with with some great tunes, and a pack of marlboro lights. well it used to be. for all you wondering, yes, i used to smoke cigarettes. ill admit it. i was fucking depressed (more than i am now) at the time. dont judge me. its better than being an alcoholic. and i dont drink coffee anymore, that was the past. im 100% clean now. sometimes.

over the years ive learned to hone my gift of natural thought into something productive. i turn my rage and sadness into the end product you are reading right now. i blog about what i feel. no, im not fucking gay. i just like to write about shit that bothers me, angers me, or i think would be an interesting topic to piss some people off about. i love doing the last one. i like seeing people get passionate about an argument in what they believe in. im just not feeling it tonight. i have not a damn thing to write about. i hate talking about myself. and here i am describing what i like to fucking do. contradiction is leader of all rebellion. whatever the fuck that means. i just made that up.

im writing non stop for a reason. this reason is random. random as a elephant riding a bike. im trying not to stop typing and continue with the first thing that comes to mind. books. i love books. i love to read. knowledge is the fountain of youth. home. i miss california. i want to go home. sit on the beach. drown in the city. walk down the sunset strip. getting wasted. i want to get wasted. i dont drink. im not like that. i want to forget my sadness. loneliness. my best friend. i feel alone. no one here. who is there? when and where? suicide. end of life. im not suicidal. cowards way out of problems. friends. have very few. i love them all. i die for them. love. is it real? i felt it before. now its gone. cigarettes. calm my nerves. bad for health. who cares? i dont. jefferson merino. who is he? a nobody. loves to write depressing shit. still has hope for the common man. conscience. what drives me to make the right decisions.

holy shit. my brain just exploded with things to say. sometimes i feel like i know the meaning of life for a split second, but it goes by too fast to fully understand the idea. I love conversations about anything. ask anyone who talks to me. i dont give a fuck what we talk about. i love human interaction. its liberating. i only talk to smart people. so if i hold long conversations with you, congratulations. i love your brain as much as i love you. while we're on the topic, i noticed that i have a hard time saying i love you. it bothers the shit out of me. 3 words can do so much damage. maybe im trying to shield myself from something? i dont know. but is sure as hell feels like i have the Berlin wall around my heart. nothing is coming in or out.

hell yea. i wrote a fucking blog tonight. and to think i was actually just going to post some shit about me not feeling it. oh i felt it alright. i explained to a friend of mine one night why i write so fucked up about myself. first off, the shit i say about myself is true. all of it. second, it keeps me in check with my inner psycho. it keeps me down to earth. it keeps me brutal about what i feel. plus it keeps me honest about what i think. to me, the best way to try and start understanding the world is to understand yourself first. what are your habits? learn from your behavior. become a better person. what do you contribute to the world? understand that, and the rest will be easy. coffee and cigarettes, the best remedy for a suicidal failure.