written word is around forever..
And even though you’re gone..
Maybe this will reach you..
one way or another..
Happy Father’s Day, Dad..
I miss you everyday.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Hope to see you again one day..
It’s after midnight and I’ve satisfied all of my vices and addictions but one.. Opiates, why must you haunt me? Strangers in dark alleyways don’t seem near as frightening as an empty medicine cabinet. Your buy back “program” for prescriptions are working well.. Turn the poor bastards loose to the streets on a savage journey for some good ole bathroom cut crank and a mind that’s just ballsy enough to buy that faithful ticket and take that bumpy ride.. Crooks. How free is your America? It’s Alcatraz for this peptic ulcer ridden, medically uninsured fuck up. Here’s to four more years of self-medication..
““Happy,” I muttered, trying to pin the word down. But it is one of those words like Love, that I never quite understood. Most people who deal in words don’t have much faith in them and I am no exception—especially the big ones like Happy and Love and Honest and Strong. They are too elusive and far too relative when you compare them to sharp, mean little words like Punk and Cheap and Phony. I feel at home with these, because they’re scrawny and easy to pin, but the big ones are tough and it takes either a priest or a fool to use them with any confidence.”—Hunter S. Thompson