Leaving on a Jet Plane

Appears that post 2am time frame has been the most suitable lately for putting down any sort of information, living in hotel rooms dodging all the usual drug addicts and chronic alcoholics so I can drink in peace without the discomfort and peer pressure associated with people bound in chains who prefer to live in denial of their self destructive natures masks by the socially acceptable roles of playing parents or discovering religion, anything, an excuse, a legitimate angle to cure the ham, to come back home, hit Orwell's Room 101, go braindead and forget that you had anything called a pulse. I know this is all a big scam, shitting on the toilet, my disiciples running back to the comforts of reality. It is too late for me, no matter all the hangovers or cardiac arrest, my lot is to go down as a dengerate, a substance abuse, a person who sits in bars in his middle age, staring at the asses of 20 something female bartenders watching them talk to douchebags, laughing at the entire display, the wasted nature, the complete and utter joke of witnessing the process of courtship in the 21st century when all people want to do is get wasted, fuck, then move on. I speak of Las Vegas, of working in the entertainment industry, right away reason goes out the window.

No one wants to here about the reality of being a cog for the ministry of truth, a tele-internet communicator to the masses who believe whatever I tell them, then attempt to come up with a lie, a bigger lie to seduce a piece of pussy back their way. I watched it happen tonight, when the cockblock crew heard I was from Vegas and the female bartender got excited, then began talking to me, these recording machines, shifted gears to begin talking about their Vegas experiences, nights at the craps table, the money won, lost, and spent, as well as a bunch of other tales of fabrication, really?, the entire process was ridiculous, the effort spent by these guys to win back the bartender's attention amazed me. What did I care, she wondered if I was coming around the next night, no such luck, don't really need anymore hassles, there are a million bars throughout the world, been to half of them, still the drama at the local neighborhood tavern is not to be underestimated. Bogota, leaving next Tues night, no plans, itinerary, or direction, just show up and let the country speak to me, just the way it should be, later. No edits