I’ve been doing a lot of writing on my own lately. I started recording earlier this month, and things are moving at a quick pace. These are strange times indeed. I don’t really have a ton to say right now. 

I’m alive. And in some sense I always will be. So, there’s that. I love this life. So thanks for reading. We’re moving up. 

I never was good at ending these things, so I’ll end it with that. 

I’m not going to lie, I’m incredibly tired. This post is just me trying to write, as per usual. 

I keep going back and thinking about The Great Gatsby. It’s interesting how in the 1920s we were in a place not so unlike the one we’re in now. In a sense the characteristics of people haven’t really changed. I’m not sure what to tack onto the end of this sentence, so, I’m sort of just rambling away. 

I remember a time when I would go to my friends house, and I always hated the smell there. It smelled a lot of what you would expect crushed cigarettes, vomit, and lack of showers to smell like. It was a drab little place. No matter how often they tried to remodel, the stench would never fade. It haunted that little basement, where we all used to sit and think about the places we were going to go, and the great old things we were going to do.

I never partook in the partying, though. I was never a fan of being outside of my own controls. Things were very different back then. I was in a constant state of sadness. Almost daily I would ponder whether I would die or not. And I had it in my head that I was most certainly addicted to prescription medication, while I in fact, was not. Yes, I took about five Vicodin at a time, multiple times a day. Yes, that was a problem. But it most definitely was not an addiction. I say that it wasn’t an addiction, because I was addicted to a much simpler thing, and that was the truth, or what I had construed to be the truth. I was always babbling on about some greater meaning, some greater truth in it all.

The reality is that truth is incredibly simple. And if we chose to tell the truth, everyone would lead unreasonably boring lies. As humans we are naturally aware of this. So we spin miraculous webs each and every day, in order to make the world a more entertaining place. Lying, is as much of an addiction as anything else. As you tell the lie, you’re getting the same sort of rush you would from doing something else that has the ability to backfire horribly. Like a soldier lightly tip-toeing through an enemy base, that feeling of being caught is what keeps liars going. I do my absolute best to not lie, but I am after all, a human. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

So don’t glorify that. The narcissistic piece of me would take far too much pleasure from it, and the cynical side of me would think you’re an idiot for glorifying a human. As a writer, I’m supposed to maintain an aura of mystery around myself. Statistically, you should be bored stiff right now. I’m giving you the answers. But perhaps there’s a deeper reason you’re still reading this. I’m not sure what that reason could be. 

I wonder who does read this. I wonder too much. But it’s refreshing to say words. I like words. I like notes. If I could write as quickly as I could on a computer, while also writing legibly, I’d only use paper. 

Someone buy me a typewriter.

write write write write write write write write write words words dinosaurs dinosaurs dinosaurs

I dont know what I’m dong here anymore but it’s not alright, I guess it’s all alright, I guess it’s not all alright. I just need a helping hand.

I’m holding onto scars, and trying to forego the attempts to fix them. And there’s a storm coming right over the horizon, and I worry that it’s going to swallow us all. Because that’s what happens in these places. You lose sight of what’s truly important, and you begin to drift towards the uninhibited pleasures of the Earth. But Earth is a cruel bitch, and while alluring, will spin you around and fuck your life up.

People keep following me on Pinterest, and I don’t even use that site. I’m surprised I even use this site.

I should be doing something better with my talents, shouldn’t I? But that’s where you have to start nowadays. On a blog. So I’m gonna keep write write writing these words words words, and these dinosaurs saurs saurs, aren’t gonna know what they’re doing here anymore. 

Are these few lines of text scattered enough for you? For a moment in time, it would appear as if it were some sort of breakdown, but it isn’t. It’s enlightenment. Like the East Eggers and West Eggers all got along together, and no one had to die. For the dream… The dream.

That’s what it’s all about, right? You have these dreams. Those dreams of overcoming oppression, of overcoming adversity, of becoming a famous dancer, of becoming a world renowned doctor. And you put yourself in a box, and you try to fill the rest of the box up with things that will allow you to achieve that goal. But there are things that are in the way of that, other little items that will seep in and attempt to mess up whatever shot you had at that dream you once had. Suddenly that dream seems incredibly far fetched, and you’re just stuck. Stuck in the wrong state, in the wrong relationship, in the wrong circumstances. 

But maybe…

But maybe you’re not stuck at all. Maybe there’s something within those circumstances that’s key to you achieving your goals. Maybe life just wants you to MacGyver the hell out of your own realm of existence. 

I feel like this is the most thought I’ve put into a piece of writing in a long time. And all because I started writing the word write, and the word dinosaur. Thank you Lindsay Price for that little tip. Write every day, and if you don’t know what to write, just write anyway. 

There’s a masterpiece in there somewhere, and I know it. You just have to sift through the Pyrite to find the Gold. Diamonds in the rough. That sort of thing. 

So, I’m sure this was educational for you. Help yourselves. Remember that. 

I used to write songs but now the narrative in my head is largely unmelodic. Which isn’t a word. As a writer, those things should anger the hell out of me. These days though, they really don’t. Maybe these random blurbs of nonsense will create a story. For all you know, they are a story. For all you know everything I write about is completely and utterly fictional. What a crying shame that would be, right? I hope that something comes out of all of this. And I hope that I’m not only writing because sometimes I feel like words are my only friends. 

All my other playthings have been taken away from me, so please be careful with my words, they’re all that’s left. 

Isn’t everything so clear tonight? I thought so. The weather was nice, barring the later evening that is. I drove with the windows rolled down, and I sang louder than I thought was possible. And it felt good.

Living feels nice. No matter how miserable I feel at times, seeing the things that are going on in the world, I still enjoy living. I like when the weather is warm, with a cool breeze. 

What if I never shake these restless nights?

What if nobody reads this?

Well, that’d be okay. Because I read it. And I’ll go back and read it one day. Maybe I’ll learn something about past Dustin, that I didn’t know before. 

“Dustin. You’ve got it right, you know. You always do. You narcissistic piece of rubbish. You’re a devil. You’re the embodiment of everything that’s wrong. You’re a moron. And you squandered your gift. “

I just realized the singer I was hearing was scottish. He was singing “black and blue” But I kept hearing “black and blur” which didn’t make a lick of sense. 

Someone is going to find the pattern, and when they do, I’ll quit. 

I think that the reason writing comes so naturally to me is because I look at everything differently. Or maybe I don’t, maybe I’ve just disillusioned myself to the point that I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

I read some things I wrote in middle school, and my lord, I cannot believe how dramatic I was. But I was making a point. There was Vicodin everywhere, and some days it got hard to know what I was really thinking. I was probably looking for attention, right? But what if maybe I saw something in the world back then, and then I lost it? 

And again, what if I’m narrating nothing? That’d be an interesting concept, wouldn’t it. Someone that just has these periodic narrations, and none of it ever adds up to anything. I think that some day I’m gonna find my way to California. Sometime soon.

I need a Charlie Runkle.

I think this might be my only legitimate talent. This writing, that’s going to provoke thought. Maybe I’ll make you look at something differently than you would have before. Then again, maybe you’ll see this and think that of all of the various pieces of material that have crossed your eyes within your time here on this blue Earth, that this was the single worst literary device seen. 

This post doesn’t really have a rhyme or reason, but I don’t really think it needs to.

Does anybody have a rhyme or reason? 

Who I am is not important. My message is.