Failed writer.
I figured my life destiny last night as I walked the drag with M
to the on-ramp for Toronto. I feel destine to be a failed writer,
knowing first hand that I have already failed or more so my
writings suck crap and this being half the battle then being
ignorant or in denial. Its Saturday night and the last place I
lived, I was destine to not let these repeat. That there would
be things to do and people to see. Its Saturday night and
there is still nowhere to go.
I sit in this basement in the 21st century wishing I had a
typewriter and a drink-of-sorts with ice, two things I don’t. A
bed made of tires,and a laptop that is not mine. I shouldn’t be
complaining. This is more then most kids have around the
world (either and / or). I don’t know where to start except here.
I’m in a Program called Katimavik and I don’t want to explain
what it is for the Nth time. I hold it in no regard with myself and
wish I wasn’t related at all. But the government of Canada is
paying for me to Travel for free if I live with people that don’t
know the difference between Canola and Olive oil, or who enjoy
radio music and Chuck Norris jokes.
That wasn’t in the contract.
If you can smell the irony read on. If not, ill get you a brochure.
My Name is Harry. I am 20. I like to think there is more to life
right now then this. I know there was. I am not out to refind it
like a bad misfits cover band made up middleage men, but
rather grow forward with where I left off and not except that
I am made only of Name, Location and Age.