Jack started hangin' 'round with some fiends. Got strung out, sold the cow for beans. Told young wifey, "I love ya, Honey, but you gotta hit the streets - go and get my money."
My, my, my. The heat here is leaving me lying in puddles of half-lucid thought; my skin red and hot and my face averted from the window to save my eyes from the glare. But we live on, here, and we don't have to contend with bushfires. I send my sympathy, regards, and strength to those who have lost loved ones in the Victoria fires, and also to those who have perished in the floods in Queensland. I am only one young man from a small country, but I send you my love and support, for what it is worth.
Today has been mentally draining. I need to kick-start something, but I can't figure out exactly what it is. I need to get this ball rolling, but I'm still hesitant. I can't sit on the fence forever, but I'll be damned if I'm going to rush back into the swing of things before I'm fully ready to handle it. I am a cynic with the heart of an optimist. A dangerous and contrary mix, for sure, but perhaps my only way out of this mess is to embrace it. It has led me to where I am now, so in theory it can lead me out. Show me the destination, you grey ghosts, and I'll begin the march.
So what to say about my existence at present? What colourful stories would you like to hear, on this humid summer's evening? Would you be charmed by tales of romances I have had, or would you prefer to flinch and screw your faces up by reading about some of the despicable behaviour I have been involved in over the years? Flowers and the soft touch of my fingers on pale white skin, or illicit drug use and violent escapes from crime scenes? There are parts of you, I know, who want to read of both. Those, even, who would wish that I had managed to blend the two together; produce triumphant emotion from the blackness of my indiscretions. But, alas, I never managed it. Not even close.
Perhaps the closest I came to a hybrid of the two was the time I slept with a loose young thing called Petal on a double bed in a house I had just broken in to. I had to case the joint for Rubin, and Petal was hanging around like a bad smell, so I took her with me. It was her idea - I hadn't given much thought to sex in the preceding few minutes - seeing as I had been jimmying a window open and climbing through it with as little fuss and noise as possible. Petal, on the other hand, had been smoking a cigarette and giggling as I broke in. Maybe she'd been staring at my ass as I climbed through the window? Maybe it was the fact that she'd been drinking since 10am and was pissed as a newt? Who could say? Either way, she was in the mood for more than hocking stolen jewelery at Cash Converters - at least for the time being.
As I made a mental note of the layout of the place, Petal was busy undressing in the master bedroom. I took stock of the fact that there were large, sliding doors that opened out on to a secluded deck which was right beside the driveway. It was a private sort of place, and Rubin would be pleased enough. I never stole anything on these ventures, much as the rest of the guys who did the same jobs ribbed me about it. Call it some sort of perverse guilt, but I didn't want to be culpable for more than breaking and entering, if I could help it. It was hypocritical and stupid, but I'm glad I never stole some poor woman's precious family heirloom or treasured piece of silverware.
I called out a few times to Petal in an attempt to get her out of the house. We'd been there five or so minutes, long enough for me to get a good idea about its redeeming features. Becoming more frustrated, I ventured down the hallway and found petal sitting on the end of the bed. "Come here," was all she offered, pulling me onto the bed with her.
To say this was somehow a hybrid of romance and daring clearly shows that I am grasping at straws. My early teenage life didn't reach any sort of romantic heights, and my life since reigning my behaviour in is far too fresh, far too painful, to consider writing about at the moment. I have a large room inside my head that is littered with memories of dizzying love and soul-crushing loss. I have slept many hundreds of nights beside perfection, and almost as many beside pools of my own tears and regret. I don't know which memories I hate more. I don't know which snapshots I would rather burn. Ain't that a bitch?
Who is the bigger idiot: Bono or Sting?
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