Dennis Dubay

From : Wednesday, September 03, 2008

"Time is a funny thing. Time is a very peculiar item.
When you're young, you're a kid, you got time.
Throw away a couple of years, a couple of years ...
It doesn't matter. You know? The older you get you say,
''Jesus, how much I got?''how many summers do i have left,
think about it."

- THE Motorcycle Boy, from the S.E. Hinton book, "Rumble Fish"

So, it's almost midnight here. I can't sleep. My stomach is killing me
and i'm not sure if its the BBQ that I ate, or the beer I drank last night,
but i don't feel right.

I ask myself all the time, "how many summers" do i have left, why
do i take for granted this life I live. All these summers, i sit
drinking away. Why don't i go, travel, see the world. 

I'd probably just end up bouncing from town to town, pub to
pub. At least I'd meet new people, find new stories ... leave
all these fucking worries that I have.

But, worries never leave you, do they. They'll follow you to
wherever you flee. Sure, you can drink them away, smoke them away,
snort them away, shoot them up, cut them, fuck them, lie
to them ... but the next day, well ... you know the drill.

I'm not sure how much longer I can do it. This ain't a cry,
mother fucker, this is just me, sitting here, talking to you, letting
you know what the deal is.

I've got  .. i gather, 10 ... maybe 12 summers left. Thats 4380
days ... that's a lot of days.

I always thought I'd die at the age of 30. Never thought I'd live past
it, to be honest. I was in love with the idea, at one time, of
just killing myself on my 30th birthday.

It would be a nice way to bookend this thing.

I'm too chicken shit to do anything like that. Plus, I love
life .. most of the time.

Now, don't get all squirmy and uncomfortable. We're talking real
life, and sometimes the shit ain't pretty, ya dig?

I wanna move to the west coast before I die, and live on the beach, soaking
in the sun, the sounds .. then move to the mountains, with an
old fashioned type writer, and a years worth of beer.

Write the greatest novel ever written, send it to a publisher with
with no name ... then I'll know my words will be immortal, while
I'll be forgotten in time, just another speck of dust.

I want to live in NY, and go to every Broadway show, i wanna
do a rail of coke in the bathroom of a famous musician; then
fuck his girlfriend .... just because i have bad manors.

I wanna open my own bar, in my home town, and then not serve
those I dislike, because, i believe in karma ... and I'll bring
all the haters down.

That or just overcharge them for drinks (that weren't even what
they ordered!)

But mainly, where I wanna go, is back to 1987 ... before it all
changed. When it was a happy world for me. When I played outside
by myself, pretending to be whatever it was I wanted to
be just then.