Jameson on the rocks.

I am a good kid.

Basically. I may call certain people unattractive names once in a while and steal lemons from the neighborhood Super A, but I've never mugged a single abuela, nor have I ever shot or stabbed anyone or thing. I feel that I've committed many a noble gesture throughout the years: convinced drunken comrades not to drive, told dear friends their ugly toddlers are blinding beacons of unadulterated light; selflessly pretended to enjoy myself through countless awful dinners, many a vapid art practice and even several experimental film screenings. I fucking love dogs. I’m even cordial to cats.

Certain random three in the mornings I sometimes rack my brain and douse my liver pondering the impossibility in tying tangents that don’t ever really quite connect.

For instance.

At this writing, my personal cache of karma points should be untouchable. According to my calcuations, I should be at the Scandium level for frequent flier miles on the motherfucking Karma Express. There are innumerable equations that support this theory, such as: following unimbedded journalism plus volunteering at a non-profit times saving goldfish from untimely deaths divided by donating to local radio stations should easily equal magic. I should be able to kidnap a fucking baby and return it with no penalties whatsoever.

So like.

I don’t quite know how that ties into my personal life, but after several rounds of whiskey, it seems pitch-able. Like I am owed something at this point. Contrary to what it seems like I enjoy writing about, I'm not a total jerk: believe you me, every once in a while, I'd like the option to fart out butterflies and and pen lighthearted stanzas about reading Sunday newspapers in a breakfast nook and getting matching lattes together, sure. That's just never the case. I always end up writing this kind of shit:

It is perhaps best to just write it all off as an unfortunate misinterpretation, some emotional loss I can only hope to post and receive a massive return for in like, April. It was all a hoax; and you ended up being the Yeti.

I had made the mistake of crossing my fingers behind my back while praying for serendipitous events. Once again, I was never yours; he was never mine and it'll conclude like it always does: deep like the bottom of a red plastic Solo cup at the bogus end of an anticlimactic underage kegger.