Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

I finished reading Etgar Keret‘s collection of short stories – The Bus Driver Who Wanted to be God – the other night, and something caught my attention. It’s the story before “Kneller’s Happy Campers” – which was later adapted into a screen play for the film Wristcutters: A Love Story. The story’s called “Pipes,” a …

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I know its absurd that I bring you up now, blame you for my sleepless nights, but the truth is I’m running out of scapegoats. So listen to me as I put these words on this page, writing down my doubt-riddled soul because it’s been seventeen years since we’ve last had this conversation. I’m too …

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We’re supposed to be grown up, no?

September 11, 2010

via: WeHeartIt

It’s  a reoccurring theme by now, but you keep smacking that gum as you chew and I can’t think of a single thing more annoying than that. I’m singling you out because right now should a plane just fall out of the sky and crash-land on the scene, I’m hoping it takes you out first. You seether.

Cue the Katy Perry track. Fade the lights just a tad where only you and I illuminated. Cue the dancers. Cue the music video clichés as you and I take center stage and perform the orchestrated dance move we call living. Because lately, I just feel that I’m going through the motions of this world, piecing together the what-shoulds and not what-coulds or the what-woulds. Pause. Turn. Smile at the cameras. Return to our seats let it all dissolve to what it is not this wonderful teenage dream we both had back in the day.

And how many times have I kept you from drowning? How many times have I’ve sacrificed myself to your whims? How many times did I keep you from the rip tide, held you close when you tried to hide the feelings of suicide as it sneaked up your spine? You told me that we were going places and I was riding shot gun. And now we’re on two different paths, laughing at the same lame jokes, hoping that we would somehow meet at the crossroads, but I’m afraid these roads are parallel and I’m trying like hell to run back to the beginning while the world is sailing by, leaving me in its wake.

And don’t tell me that life is already predicted, that we’re stuck in our positions as long as we’re alive. Because some of us are born to live and some of us just wait around until we die. It doesn’t make sense. We’ve become to complacent to feel anything. Where are the designer drugs? Where is the party? Where is the alcohol and the syringes? Instead of being responsible, we’re marching the trenches of our own personal wars, attempting to be grown ups while we’re nothing compare to those that came before us.

Has it been ten years now? Ten years since I said goodbye to whatever innocence I had left and entered the world, pampered and unprepared? Let’s play chess. Let’s let it all bleed away.

But you’re popping your gum again. And I’m just waiting until that flash of light that consumes us all in the end.