No Joy in Mudville

I step outside the door, wanting something, anything to tell me where I should go, where it is that I needed to be. I knew I needed be somewhere, because I sure as hell didn’t need to be here anymore. I got in the car and turned it on; pulling out of the driveway like a bat out of hell, I turn the radio up and head east. The sun hangs low in the afternoon sky; it looks like it’s just as tired, seconds away of saying “fuck it” and falling to rest behind the mountains that loomed over the country-scape.

How could I be so foolish? I actually thought that it would be appropriate to bring up that thought; WHAT THE FUCK was I thinking? I’m not even at any major anniversary in life, and I still maintain these fantastical delusions of the ideal family, the picturesque house sitting quaintly at the end of some suburban cul-de-sac, as my kids play carelessly on their bikes in the front, as I sit content with her on the porch, hand in hand, completely pleased with the way our lives turned out… That’s not real, how could it be? How could I ever imagine being happy with someone else at some indiscernible point in the future, if the thought of happiness now seems so unapproachable?

I don’t understand how it is I’m supposed to operate… I want to be young, I want to be concerned with only self, and perpetual fun, essentially that’s my job, right—at the very least my goal? Why is it that I crave the companionship of only one person? Shouldn’t I be turning my head every time an attractive skirt walks by? And furthermore how can I entertain the thought of being a father, I couldn’t even take care of a goldfish, and I have to imagine that children are bit more difficult to maintain than goldfishes, hell you have to teach kids how to swim, they hardly come programmed with the basics and necessities in life, aside from shitting and crying… Fuck it, I’ll keep driving down this interstate, until I can either find that which I really do desire, or until it burns my bones.