I
dated incorrectly. Sometimes I live incorrectly, too. At one point, the
handbook dictating the effective, moral and just life was in my possession, and
now I’m illiterate. Maybe I’m holding it upside-down…or mistaking it for
another book completely.
No matter; I set down this useless book and search for
something more beneficial: a survival guide. In this I want to learn or remind
myself of what I’ve forgotten: how to live my damn life. The scariest part is
the loneliness that goes with that…and the cigarettes. Both may aid in the
creation of bad poetry, I hope, because I know they aren’t helping with
anything else.