I will celebrate my 34th birthday (2007) in my own place. I don’t kid myself that this is a normal goal for a 34-year-old, to have their own place for the first time since…whenever, but then, I’ve never kidded myself that I was normal, or that I’d want to be. I have met the normal, and they bore me. They are dull, and their wit does not cut me.
I don’t regret bangin’ around learning a little something about life the last eight years, but it’s time to move on. I want to live my own life the way I figure I ought to, without ashtrays to spill on the fucking carpet, for one thing. To have whoever I want over whenever I want without them being hassled. To have silence when I want silence, and sound and fury when I want to signify nothing. To be free from the incessant whining of the television. A place to focus. A place to find The Idea.
I don’t think I’m ready to leave the 45 yet, though. One step at a time.
Or maybe I will be. I don’t know. A year’s a long time to decide where to go. It’s enough for now that I’ve decided to go there, and that I know I will not waver, and will not forget why.
That means I need to pull all the carpet out of my room sometime this week.
Damn. Who knew having a goal would be all this fucking work?
My place, is not a home.
It don’t make no difference, but I have found
that I need a place to stay
I never listen what the landlord man sayYou should have seen all the flops in my house
They was jumping on walls and kicking ceilings
Nowadays people listen to me,
when I say…GET OUT!
My room is a shambles. My place is better than it used to be, but calling it a shambles would do an injustice to shambles.
Am I rearranging my life or just falling apart? Is there a difference?
What am I looking for? Will I know when I find it?
Will it be shiny?
