Cocaine Is An Empty Promise

It was easy and it shouldn't have been.

I dated Becky Reynolds and Jamie Sandoval. I pitched some good games in high school, I was pretty good at the guitar (before I quit). I told good jokes, I could drink a lot of beer, I wore cool clothes and had a lot of friends. I was popular.

When I finished school I figured it would be golden, from there on out.

Now I’m at the corner bar by the race tracks and no one is looking at me. No one is laughing or buying me drinks. Got no job, got no honey. I got shit, that’s what I got.

My degenerate friends, as least as slimy as I am, call me “dirty”.

Sometimes, I’ll sit and eat in a chair by the road. I’ll watch people pick their noses while driving but they are going somewhere. To or from work, getting their kids from daycare.

Eventually I’ll turn away and look in the store windows. I’ll get distracted by a fly on the wall or an Indian girl with a nice ass and short black shorts.

I wish I had been abused more, pushed more, ridiculed more, hit more, embarrassed more. Humbled, then humbled again and again.

Cause if I had it wouldn't hurt so bad to be like this. To be a shadow, to fall in and out of love for the first and last time when you were sixteen, to be a terrible drunk, and to fail, endlessly.

But I always remember I have some friends and a family. No matter what I cannot give up because in the end I may have a chance to dive on a bomb for them.