maybe i wont wake up tomorrow

strung out on the couch, boredom sets in like it has so many times before. my eyes ache more than usual from reading for the past hour or so, im not too sure. sometimes my clocks get reset from power failure, and i decide not to correct them. what would you call someone who loathes self improvement to the point that its nearly counter productive to properly living? would you call them a masochist? more than likely not. i mean, i have burnt myself with a cigarette before but that was a mere isolated instance of male machismo, truly to never repeat itself. so what would you call it? like anything matters anyway. improving ones self is a lie, its a quest for perfection that will never end. the idea of perfection varies from one mind to another, just like the idea of god varies from one person to another. the one truth to them both is that they both are impossible to find. perfection and god. god and perfection. they go hand in hand. hand in hand down the street like the lesbian couple that all the men fantasize about, and truly think that they could somehow get that. how arrogant. slowly my eyes shut, the feeling is exactly like lowering your sunburned body into a pool while there's no one around to ruin your enjoyment with their self centered stories and interjections. not actually listening just waiting their turn to talk. no one likes an interrupting asshole. my eyes open and the clock says its near eight o'clock in the p.m., obviously this is not correct judging by the sunlight, ive been asleep for a couple of hours though. not refreshed. pissed off that i awoke more than anything. but i do remember my dream if that's any consolation. remember it more or less, the way one remembers a fairy tale. sure i know the majour points of the three little pigs but i never actually saw that shit go down. it had something to do with religion and how if theres a hell im going straight there or something. actually it may have been about bowling, who knows? when will these times end? these times of waking up tired. tired of waking up. tired of the whores. tired of worrying about the future. do we dream because our mind needs an escape from reality? i think it could easily be true. our bodies block out excruciating pain by passing out. the idea of sleep is the same. we cannot take a full twenty four hours of this shit hole. we must get around eight hours of fantasies a night to keep on living. if we didn't have one third of our day removed, we might find some truth. once that happened, once people started to see how pointless their lives were, how idiotic the things they worship were; football, television, facebook, rappers. well, suicide would be more trendy than fucking skinny jeans. today, my truck started and continued to do so. my money hasn't run out yet. that drug dealer never jumped me like he said he was going to. i am relatively healthy. i have friends. so i continue to live.