The American Way

Ten fingers, ten toes and a pules; I’m still alive. Or am I? Does waking up after your body can’t take another second of sleep into a world where you feel as though things are constantly against you constitute as “living”? If that’s the case, Lord let me die. The mundane and routine have no room in my life; the strugge to stay afloat as a twenty something trying to do something with his life is overrated and I have to say, this fucking blows. Everyday I ask myself why the hell I’m here and every answer that I can give myself or one that my mother can give me is one that acts as a bandaid…until the Universe comes to rip it off faster than I can say ouch then proceeds to pour copious amouts of rubbing alcohol on the wound. And when I cry about it, the Universe sticks a mystery flavor Dum-Dum in my mouth to shut me up. This shit isn’t fun. Scraping, ducking and dodging…and for what? Just so I can afford to buy my black ass a piece of bread and a carton of eggs. In this age, the only way to know if you’re doing life right is if you owe somebody some money. Whether it’s your mother, father or Sallie Mae, if you have no debts to pay, well god damn…chil’ you ain’t livin right. I wake up, we all wake up, only to be somebodies bitch for the day and that, my friends, is the true American way.