The Straying Thoughts. Vol. I

Monologues are so greasy because all you really wanna do is let your emotions pore out into your typing and than when its finished and you try to read it out loud it sounds like a broken man’s thoughts about trivial events of his life and it sounds whiney and polished and sterile.

But maybe its the single fact that the very reason that some of the events in your life are trivial, and yet so annoying, and ironic and anger and cringe inducing that the best way that you can cope with your life would be to realize that life is made up of all things, including on a much grander scale, trivial, boring, disgusting and painful things.     

That's why you laugh at it. If life throws a good amount of suffering your way, why do you dwell on the trivial shit and let it bring down your entire life?! Horrible shit will happen to you in your life that will truly disgust and shame you and change you for the worse. so until those things happen (which isn’t nearly as often as a lot of us make it out to be): how funny is it that last night your explosive diarrhea scorched onto the side of the toilet bowl so hardcore that you had to go at it with a Brillo pad for a second to get it off. sonic boom baby. Sonic Boom.

Hugh Carol Smokes his second to last cigarette.

Hugh Carol stood on the stoop of his building in the Doorsky district of Chicago and he was smoking a cigarette when he realized that he was very much indeed addicted to cigarettes and could no longer smoke them. He would miss the break they give him for his thoughts. The wave of calm that washes over him on a warm spring night with lightening bugs bedazzling© the concrete porch around him. He would also miss the conversation of a good friend that can come with a cigarette on the porch. The brothers-in-armsesque© closeness that comes from already being such a foul (and at times foul smelling) reject of society.

he looked up, didn’t think about his bank account. He took a drag of his cigarette. He didn't think about how dirty his keyboard was getting, that he’d need to wipe it down because he’d been typing so much that little nasty caked on skin had formed on the h, y, x, v, b, n, j, 7, and for some weird reason that he couldn't really comprehend, the q button. How the hell did his q button get dirty?! He wasn’t in to any quintuplet porn or anything... quotes? Queens College? Other terms down the list when he typed qu into the search bar of a certain googantuain search engine he can’t name? 

No he didn’t think about that shit when he smoked his cigarette. He wasn’t thinking about his good friend Avaram Cherokee 3500 miles away in Fargo North Dakota right now, nor the impossible time that he is having completing his schoolwork and graduating from that school so that he can get the fuck out of there. Hugh did miss the man dearly, he acknowledged, whilst not thinking about him.

He took another drag. It was starting to get warmer. He was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt even though he had to pace back and forth to keep acclimated to the windchill but he didn’t fucking care at the moment because he was smoking his fucking cigarette and he had his fucking shit figured out. Fuck everything, he thought. Fuck the god-dammed world to the mother-fucking ground.He wasn’t going to think about the future for another inch and a half and it was going to rock his fucking world.

And when he was done with that, he was going to quit. And it would save him money and then he would start to...(continued ad nausea for another two to three minutes).