la vie bohem

im learning that it is a lie.

maybe im not cut out for it.

la bohemia seemed so glamorous-- i dont know if thats the right word-- anti-glamorous and real. knowing about important things, discussing these things, using big words, ordering complicated espresso drinks, forcing myself to love black coffee and quietly and arduously developing my palate. smoking foreign cigarettes, speaking lovingly of my own experience while sizeing up those of others as better or worse than my own. tattoos, piercngs, coloured hair, angst.

what has it all amounted to?

i am ignored by the raging alcoholics who have ordered five drinks from me by ten thirty, branded with more tattoos than me, with their cool air of a difficult life, woodcuts.

no one cares, and no one ever has. i have wrongly thought otherwise of many people. at some point, i thought, it would stop making me sad.

all the kids now in their punk rock uniforms, their moussed black hair, their recycled cordourory sling bags, their cars with stickers of unpronounceable band names, who look at you incredulously or amused or both that you dont know who SANDPISS is, who speak like they recently had a lobotomy, who like to tell you stories about their friends drunk uncles that did the prison tattoos on their backs, young girls who think they are invincible, in control, or whatever else.

id like to tell them it wont get them anywhere. that living in your car is awesome, and its funny the first couple times you get thrown out of a UDF for showering in their bathrooms. a gun in your face builds character.

no one cares and no one ever has.

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