It's Been a Year, Now

So this is it.

I was running downtown. Tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, I almost fell flat onto some punk's graffitti scrawled in white spray-paint. "We are the real terrorists." It stood out against that overgrown grass and a plank-board bench. I couldn't help but smile at this personal truth. A fifteen year old has said more than some middle-agers have in their entire life. Declaration.

This is the part of the story where I, like that kid who was probably angry about the state of something a lot less consequential than terrorism, break out of everyday life syntax and puncuation rules. This is that segment where I do something stupid like smoke three cigarettes or lay out on my deck naked or down a third of a bottle of Jose. I like feeling trashy (read: badass) every now and then. So, why am I suddenly censoring my life? I'm trying so very hard to fold my quirks back into a box for the summer. Clean-pressed John is not yet back from the cleaners, so which personality should assume for the time being?

I have several options. I'm trying on my chef-hat and my motorcycle jacket and my dewrag and my gucci sunglasses and I just can't decide what make of it all. Should I arm myself with a cane or a cigarette or an umbrella-ella-ella? I don't know and I hate rihanna for ruining that word for the next few months. I haven't been able to arm myself with this keyboard for so.very.long.

I am where I am, and sometimes I forget that. Where are you?