Pretty Fucking Dim

If I knew anything about anything I’d be the first to speak up, but I don’t. I can speak, I just don’t have anything to say, anything worth saying. Speaking when you should keep shut is what most people do, and I don’t want to be most people. I know people who speak just so they can hear themselves, like a fucking broken record, all cracked up and scratchy. I don’t want to be one of them, most people that is. You’d catch me reading on the bus before you’d catch me talking when I shouldn’t, opening my yap just to hear myself, that’s fucked up, in more ways than one. I suppose there’s lots of fascinating shit in the world; all I’m saying is I could care less about it. Some things seem out of place, for example this guy riding the bus with a dagger tattoo on his forearm, just below the crook in his elbow where guys with dagger tattoos crank heroin or Drano or some shit like that; all that shit is corrosive, shit you find in a janitor’s closet, with the mops and dusters, that kind of shit. I knew this chick that shot up Drano thinking it was crank or crack, the kind of shit that makes your head go all dim and fucked. I mean when you get to that point in life, when you’re shooting up Drano, your life is pretty much over, pretty fucking dim.