If Pennsylvania was Buckeye, Az.
I was driving Pop J's big truck in the fog when I happened upon another big truck on the road, which had a very large sticker on the back window that read: FUCK SCOTTSDALE. That made me smile, not because I agree (though I probably do, with Scottsdale not in the least privileged, rather every other person who puts there weight in something other than spirit), but because it helped me remember how much I like to say the word Fuck, as timidly as I do, yet in a much different connotation. That bra-han looked straight at me, look as straight as his lips as straight as the bill of his FAMOUS hat, and gave me a nod like we eat the same shit for breakfast everyday--feeling mother fuckers like me. I smiled and gave him twiddle fingers. The word has been so silent on my lips.
There has been a lot of silence on my mountain-shaped lips. It gets lonely sipping coffee (among other things) by myself. I stopped brushing my teeth in the mornings--the taste of coffee is too good of company to part with sometimes. It is a knife for the blandness of my day.
I've been trying to write creatively lately, but nothing can knife that dullness of life I try to express. There aren't many that would see the beauty I try to convey, but hopefully, hopefully. Anyway, it's good practice for becoming a better writer, and reassuring myself that I still exist--in pain of lacking, existing all the more.
