P.S. I will save everyone.

"My love, you can't save everyone. I wish you understood that," a tone of disappointment saturated with flecks of genuine sincerity that only a mother can convey.

Lighting my cigarette, I desperately tried to breathe every ounce of that sincerity in.

"And please quit smoking."

Silence. Reflection? I wasn't even listening at this point.

"Maybe my words of wisdom are falling on deaf ears," she rambled, "but your heart has always been far too large for your body. You worry me."

"Ma, smoking isn't all that bad," I muttered with an exhale, my avoidance blatantly obvious and scattered in second hand smoke throughout the room by the power of my stand up fan.

My mother sounded like a TRUTH ad, and oh how those ads rile me up.

"Fair enough.. I guess it must have been pretty exciting to see someone smash another person's head with an acoustic guitar. Call your father later, he'll love that story."

"Wish you were here."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

In fact, I'm so sorry that I don't even recall what I am sorry for anymore.

..........


I wish people weren't so mean-spirited. More importantly, I wish it didn't rub off on me.

Most of them are yours.

And it's so nice sitting very still without those old shoes.. I could never fill.
----

I wish they were still around. A feeling of comfort you doubt (know) you'll ever (never) find again. New ones refuse to feel the same. Kind of awkward, too much to get used to.. too much to adjust to, and the smell of plastic still lingers even after first wiff. Nothing can replace the old ones. Fuck, nothing should replace the old ones. Ever. (I'm speaking of the band, not the shoes, right? .. I hope the shoes are in goodwill and gone and used up by someone else whose feet they can mold, conform and grow on.)

Speaking of replacing, how do you do it? Can you do it? Should you? I was once told you don't recycle human beings. You don't throw them out either. You just preserve, preserve, preserve. Cherish, even. Humans (me) are not disposable. I'm going to be replaced. Suddenly (not so?) I'm disposable and it's finest (worst). At a place where people love(d) me. Past and present and future mushing together into one big ball of memories I won't be in. I don't like it. But this stuff happens, right? .. My old shoes won't fit anyone else. Ever.. right (wrong)?

I read and re-read this cess pool of internet banter I once thought was me at my most articulate. (I now realize my most articulate moments are effortlessly crafted on a La Luna dance floor after 3 PineappleUpsideDownCake shots and 5 Captain&Gingers.) My electronic diary is me whining about boys. Whining. Seriously fucking whining. Kind of pathetic. No one should be sympathetic and I regret to admit I'm slightly apathetic.

I'm having a good time, though. A real blast. A hoot, if you will. Despite my lack of accurate punctuation and word usage, I'm doing good. I can't place my finger on the problem, where I've been going wrong. If I knew where I've been going wrong, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have made a left hand turn at the sign for right. Maybe life is one big loop. One big caldisac of weird occurances, moderately acceptable random nights.. and a pinch of serious business. Some houses hidden behind white picket fences, other homes boarded up and abandoned.

Irregardless, you can hunt and locate me by my trail of ill-fitting, smelly shoes.

Bad news.

At least I have this guard built up similar to that of an indestructible wall of Legos that a youth builds, but never fully realizes it could crumble at any moment.

I'll probably get hurt. It'll be another life lesson to tuck away in the back of my mind.

Too many Buffalo connections for my liking.