Weekend Dad

I took it very personal. Laying on my back, eyelids open during witching hours. Insomnia made herself comfortable in my bed for going on 47 days. You'd think if she was going to spend all this time under the covers with me, she'd at least want to fuck. But no. I lay here in a gray room listening to four paws chase something in the apartment upstairs. Back and forth, back and forth. It might as well be the ticking of a clock. Back and forth. Rain clicks down on my window sill and some drunk asshole just got home and thinks every thing is funny. I wish he'd laugh away from the window so as not to scare away my sleep if it came by.

If I run any farther away from my self I will fall into the Atlantic. This brain can be so dramatic. Why is it that every fucking time I pack up those boxes, all of me shows up to the next place yet some of those boxes tend to fall off the truck? Why can't memories and character defects fall off the truck? I got a few stories I'd like to leave behind.

Life gets hard when you start living it. With out fucking it, drinking it or snorting it, I don't know what to do with it. I look around the room nervously trying to pull my cheeks up and squint my eyes, the way I see others smile. I bite my knuckles and life just looks at me, slightly disappointed, slightly bored and very resentful. It's kinda like spending the weekend with your real dad. I make little jokes and speak in foot notes. It rolls it's eyes at me and gives me a pity smile. When did this happen?