papipaco
Sex God
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- Nov 10, 2011
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Fucking Birds and Paper Trails
A little birdie told me once I'd never amount to anything. I lied--an entire flock of birds have told me I'd never amount to anything. So this is me. . .telling those birds to fuck off.
True, I may be a twenty year old nothing, but I'm a twenty year old nothing with a pencil, a sharp tongue, a dream and a story to tell.
People have always said the best stories are the real ones. Some people may not care to hear my story, some may read it and walk away feeling nothing but I believe that somewhere in the world someone has lived it all as I have. Could be it's just the chicken scratchings of a confused, neurotic, crazy, but, hey, buddy, this one's for you.
I guess when a person tells a story they start from the beginning. So here it is, the great beginning: I was born. Fin.
That's about all I know. I was told there's a baby book floating around somewhere in the world, I don't know if it's true, nor do I care. Details of my birth are irrelevant. If you must know--I wore little yellow shoes home. One still exists somewhere.
Then there's childhood. Mine sucked. And i mean seriously sucked but I survived and I made some friends along the way and I guess that's worth something. Like a buck and a quarter or something.
So shitty childhood turns into shitty young-adulthood. Kid Dewey becomes asshole-fucking-prick-Dewey (an apt nickname at the time, I'll admit). Life is a shit storm and everyone's happy. Somewhere in there I decided I was going to be a writer. That was what kept me going through most of the middle school years. I was supposed to be doing math homework, but you know, I didn't much care for math. The only numbers in my life were the little ones scrawled into the bottom right corner of my written pages.
Writing back then gave me a sense of purpose and pride. The first time one of my books hit 100 pages I beamed. 1000- I was grinning from ear to ear. It felt good. By the time I'd reached my Freshmen year of high school I considered myself an author. Sure, I wasn't published yet but I wrote pages and pages, writing was my life. I went on binges of marijuana and crazy ideas! Paper was all that mattered to me: the kind you wrote on and the kind you rolled with. Then for awhile I ceased with one sort of paper and it wasn't the kind that started with "zig" and ended in "zag."
A little birdie told me once I'd never amount to anything. I lied--an entire flock of birds have told me I'd never amount to anything. So this is me. . .telling those birds to fuck off.
True, I may be a twenty year old nothing, but I'm a twenty year old nothing with a pencil, a sharp tongue, a dream and a story to tell.
People have always said the best stories are the real ones. Some people may not care to hear my story, some may read it and walk away feeling nothing but I believe that somewhere in the world someone has lived it all as I have. Could be it's just the chicken scratchings of a confused, neurotic, crazy, but, hey, buddy, this one's for you.
I guess when a person tells a story they start from the beginning. So here it is, the great beginning: I was born. Fin.
That's about all I know. I was told there's a baby book floating around somewhere in the world, I don't know if it's true, nor do I care. Details of my birth are irrelevant. If you must know--I wore little yellow shoes home. One still exists somewhere.
Then there's childhood. Mine sucked. And i mean seriously sucked but I survived and I made some friends along the way and I guess that's worth something. Like a buck and a quarter or something.
So shitty childhood turns into shitty young-adulthood. Kid Dewey becomes asshole-fucking-prick-Dewey (an apt nickname at the time, I'll admit). Life is a shit storm and everyone's happy. Somewhere in there I decided I was going to be a writer. That was what kept me going through most of the middle school years. I was supposed to be doing math homework, but you know, I didn't much care for math. The only numbers in my life were the little ones scrawled into the bottom right corner of my written pages.
Writing back then gave me a sense of purpose and pride. The first time one of my books hit 100 pages I beamed. 1000- I was grinning from ear to ear. It felt good. By the time I'd reached my Freshmen year of high school I considered myself an author. Sure, I wasn't published yet but I wrote pages and pages, writing was my life. I went on binges of marijuana and crazy ideas! Paper was all that mattered to me: the kind you wrote on and the kind you rolled with. Then for awhile I ceased with one sort of paper and it wasn't the kind that started with "zig" and ended in "zag."