Might as well has this here too, it's been three years since I wrote it. I think it still holds true.
Space for rent. Your ad here. My name is Graham Isador, the prodigal son of tradition and crackers. I am eighteen years old and would rather not be. Blink. My entire life, culture, opinions, soul were bought on books, records, websites. For six easy payments of mistrust and dignity this could be yours! But right now it’s mine, and I don’t mind that. Hornby and Gavin call it the best years. I call it my teens. When I was five I wanted to be a power ranger. Nine a police man. Twelve an anarchist. Sixteen a martyr. Now I just want to be. There isn’t nearly enough time for that anymore though; as I waste my days in a school, a coffee shop, a basement, a bar; playing a big city life in a small town. I rotate the things that are still here to make it seem as if none of the pieces are missing. A lot of time spent, shooting, and filling blanks. She hasn’t minded, so I pretend not to. I’ve always had a strong appreciation for vertigo. It keeps me grounded. Giving up and growing up haven’t really been that different. Cough. The most important thing to remember when ordering a green tea is that it’s tall, medium build, brown hair, with a battling sense of arrogance and insecurity, five sugars and no milk. Milk just fucks it up. That’s not shock value. It’s just how I see it. There is a time and place for subtlety and articulation. Describing myself is not the time or place. If you’re so enamored I still have some room in the back. The front rows are reserved for a dog named Jodie and a girl named Cassie. She’s in California. I don’t recall what colour her eyes are but mine are grey. If you turned her sideways she’d disappear. I like that. Capitalism, though the ism people like most, is organized exploitation. But you and I have always run on cheap oil and profit. So it goes. We’ll learn soon enough. The right don’t get it and the left have it wrong. I hope, I think, I know. But there’s still a hole where a phone was thrown. A pint of Guinness to make me strong. A light that never goes out. And another pattern forming. These tunes in play in my head and when no one's looking I sing along. Twitch. Sometimes I try and get the insides out. Other times I’d rather not. I wonder if they talk about me, and if they do what they say. “A writer with no direction, a poet with no muse, a liar, a cheat, and a loser” Not that I’d care. I just really want to be noticed. Really. For real. Forever. Ever Ever? Really. Every line I’ve ever written has never really said what I’ve wanted to say. Every mic I’ve sang into has never been loud enough. My voice cracks when too many people listen. I am over prescribed and under the weather. My parents tell me it’s a phase. They’re okay. It may be a phase. I don’t see them enough to know. Trust me. I’ll say sorry if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll apologize if I can have my way. That’s childish. You’re childish. Time out. Wait your turn. I wait a lot under a thousand calories a day! Terrified of ending up past thirty two. Round. Right round. Sideways. Like a tape deck. Just flip a coin to get some head or tell tall tales. I’ve made a habit of learning how to kill time. I commit its murder daily. And despite it’s death it doesn’t ever stop. Ever Ever? Really.