I Don't Want to Graduate...

I wonder: if James Joyce was alive, would we get along?

He seems like the kind of psuedo-degenrate I am.

The kind of guy who sits around a laundry mat after it closes. Looking at porn and writing sappy stream-of-thought musings out of some twisted sense of self-imposed poverty.

I wonder if this is how he started.

Hi...My name is Dan, and I'm an underachiever.

He said to himself, he said to her.

Frazier, Fresh Prince, Family Guy, Futurama.

Over and over and over again. Mildly dizzy from the scrolling screen.

Am I the James Joyce of my generation? God I hope not.

Another stop by the Barnes and Noble. Another visit to the coffee shop. Frayed nerves, fried mind. Why the hell not?

Since school ended I haven't gone to bed before sunrise, and I wonder what kind of damage I'm doing to myself, but I get a new sense of self out of these all nighters.

What did the third shift clerk say to me last night, or was it last week?

Something like "All of us just want a place to sit still for a while and converse with someone else. Everything's closed and everyone's asleep. If it wasn't for this job I'd go stir crazy"

and I said:
"Whaddaya wanna hack for, Bickle?"

And I think:
"I won't able to do this forever, I'll enjoy it while I can.

And I do.

I never appreciate someone more than in the last thirty seconds before saying good night. The awkwardness of trying to justify being awake. The basic want for social contact outweighing the basic need for sleep. The good time can't end yet.

Dark City, Taxi Driver.

Night.