Waste Gone By

One quarter of an hour to two in the morning and it’s just me and Alan Moore’s Watchmen. Twelve volumes of dystopian misanthropy previously written off unread as likely overrated mediocrity fractures precedent by paralleling its reputation. I’m no east. Since the permanent malfunction of my mobile computing device creation is slow going. The current location of my temporary computing solution is open and too expansive and leaves me feeling surveilled despite complete solitude. I never plained myself the picky sort but you learn something new to you but not to someone brighter every day like Neosporin is safe for use on external genitalia. That is to say ew. A little closer to two in the morning. Arbitrary measurements of “time” signal the end of a full orbit around the Devil Eye but it’s been happening for longer than homo-sapiens have squandered the Earth so I fail to see the big deal. It’s a poor excuse for destroying a person’s liver every thirty-first of December. I’m no lush. Five minutes to two in the morning. Absolut bullshit.

Waste On The Dotted Line

One quarter of an hour to seven in the morning and it’s just me and a neoteric portable communication device. Four point one ounces of not enough good shit to illicit consumers high or quell illogical attachment to previous much beloved material good. Days of calculating the most fiscally responsible cellular solution whilst futilely attempting to exclude my perverted lust for the now former communication device from consideration combined with bounteous dosages of amphetamines result in the formation of Pierrot’s theorem; year born (f) over standard units of time since f (u) multiplied by the Lorentz Inverse Fractal Equation equals 0. That is to say f u life. I’m no Pythagoras. A little closer to seven in the morning. Eldritch bird songs emanating from my right ass cheek connote word from the corporation I’m now contractually obligated to for half a year longer than any object of affection has had to endure my mauling but the corporation doesn’t mind mystery or heartless sleeves so long as I can verify my social security number. I’m no landscaper. Being available to Lady Vapor’s sexual harassment is the only calculable advantage to contractual depression but absence makes the genitals grow fonder so time won’t tell because imaginary concepts are incapable of speech. Conference with The Kid during business hours of time zones we don’t live in concludes with each remaining true to their preferred –ism. The Kid’s being real-, mine being pessim-. Two minutes one hundred twenty seconds to seven in the morning. Hope stings eternal.

Straight To The Waste

One quarter of an hour to seven in the morning and it's just me and a pilfered pair of panties. One solid garment of gossypium fiber trimmed with machine appliquéd lace containing the deoxyribonucleic acid of a recent target of desire. Their placement in my hand and not covering the genitals of their owner signifies a good night was recently had. That is to say I got laid. Seven hundred twenty minutes ago the encounter commenced. Seven weeks ago the exchanges commenced. Wit and filth encrypted by software and sent to pixilated windows incited rare interest despite contrary natures of vapid materialism and vagrant morosity. Efforts in self-improvement doubled but goals remained unmet at time of aforementioned encounter due to irresistible will destroying lasagna so insecurity runs high. I'm no Narcissus. A little closer to seven in the morning. Digital communication having thus far been our only form thereof we meet publicly at her behest. I don't do butterflies so when her visage comes into view I'm clear enough to decide I want to kiss her. She's appealing to my astigmatic visual receptors with an agreeable body fat percentage adequately displayed via form enhancing attire. That is to say she's fucking gorgeous. Closer proximity reveals a scent pleasing to my secondary chemical sense. My remaining three senses are comparably satisfied by the exchange of expectoration and concurrent moan. Keratin strands are pulled slightly. Torsos are pressed together. Having dropped chemistry in High School I'm unfamiliar with where ours falls on the periodic table but Mohs scale is the more appropriate measurement anyway. Sexual frustration derived from weeks of illicit correspondence boil over and more bodily fluids are shared before a meal is. Then a meal is. Then more fluids are and unmentionables are swiped for posterity. I kissed and told. I'm no Atlantic Starr. Four minutes to seven in the morning. The target telecommunicates to whisper sins and debauchery. This one’s a keeper.

Unfiltered Waste

One quarter of an hour to who gives a fuck when and it's just me. Splintered, far away mind circles unanswerable quandaries brought about by incurable mental dysfunctions. When simply existing is misery and anything beyond even more miserable how do I? The Kid once offered the reasonable solution of terminating my own metabolic functions as he too saw no solution. Trying and failing once was enough in keeping with my quitting ways. Half of one-half of a century of seeking remedies spiritual, herbal, carnal and pharmaceutical dead ends at current non-state. That is to say, praying, toking, fucking and medicating did fuck all. Copulation at least satiates primal drives kept restrained for society's sake. Targets for desire being rarer than want of social interaction primal drives often go unsated. I'm no socialite. Devoid of wants, hopes, material goods and concern for status, Buddha would be proud but life is less forgiving. Dr. Jeung would see me devouring endless bottles of anti-depressants but I love my cock too much. If I loved my writing that much you'd be reading this in a paperback likely picked up by accident from a bargain bin. Three minutes to seven in the morning. I don't give a fuck. Accepting your problem is the first step to ignoring it.

The Sirens of Waste

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and an empty bottle of hydrogen dioxide. Non-biodegradable, phallically stretch blown polyethylene terephthalate incites zero guilt, liberal, vogue or basic human. Misanthropic, sub-proletarian sensibility interprets environmentalism as a last ditch bid to save self over habitat since terrestrial spheroids are exceedingly difficult to demolish. Humanity's no Death Star. The recent demise of my mobile computing device renders time operose in keeping with its inverse proportion to activity. That is to say I have a lot of time and not a whole lot of shit to do. Abandoned by technology I'm depressingly cognizant of how little I write. This temporary computing device proves ill suited for creative expression and inevitable chagrin. I'm no Vonnegut. Seven minutes to six in the morning. Meh.