You know, some dance instructors kill themselves. Some lawyers do too, I’m sure, after a long lost case. And parents stuck at home and overwhelmed doctors, and CEOs after this last dip in the stock market. If you can’t imagine a dance instructor constrained by the restraint of his life, then you can’t appreciate the freedom of what they instruct. I am not ashamed that my utmost desire is to die doing what I love. In the face of evil, I should not succumb to a paycheck for my expression. It is to live in hell. We’ve all been there. Upset by our own boredom. As if Imagination should strike like lightning (which is relatively rare unless you live in Seattle). I am not proud that death is my closest intimacy, but it makes life worthwhile. It makes me strive for the next night so that sure enough I will ultimately reach my goal.
My problem is that I rushed to the finish, and I assure you an ending was implanted like fake breasts. I’m stupider than a paramedic. Often reduced to a good quote or two to base my entire outlook. A part of me is screaming out to survive, while I watch it dying, and so, I look forward to dying alone. I am not a nihilist cynic any more than a baby is for crying. Yes, yes, “I’m sure he wasn’t raised properly.” “I blame the mother.” “Oh yes, and television.”
Ben Bonkoske 