Ha. Ha. Ha.

I have a copyright, and I think that that is funny. Look:

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony DominickCopyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick
Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick

Do you see?

Tonight I went for coffee and a few smokes. I got some coffee, and some smokes, and I smoked my coffee and I drank my cigarettes with as much vigor as a twenty-two year old boy should. I read some words. For a bit, I read some words by Vonnegut. Then, for another bit I read some words by Bukowski. Poor Bukowski is dying and taking it harder than I thought he would and Vonnegut is just talking some crazy shit about stupid religious terms and meanings and the end of the world and all that jazz. They do entertain me though, and how.

Pretty girls with pretty eyes...

Listen honey, I like your smile the most, and all that big decision talk bothers me, how about we just get drunk at the park and let the night have its way with us.

Anyways...

I've got sleep hounding at the damned door. Don't you hate that? Christ, I do. It's always saying two things: "Charlie, you're too stubborn for your own good, get your ass to bed or regret the next day altogether," or "hey, one more cigarette?"

I always say yes.

Always.

I used to tell someone that love is first born in the heart. Any thoughts? How can that even make sense, right? The heart is a muscle. It is the most habitable thing on the planet. Why do we give it so much credit? Maybe, if the heart were a feeling thing, we would always want to be on its good side or it could just up and stop and we would all just drop dead. Fuck. Well, thats just stupid. I would rather have my heart just stop than my brain shut off and I become a vegetable of a man.

*Note To All Readers:
If the author suddenly has a brain shut-down and becomes a vegetable of a man you are instructed (those whom the author knows personally, of course, unless you're very bored or something) to pull the plugs; stop the heart. Let his miserable, blank, emotionless ass be put to the good, hard, long sleep and all you have to do afterwards is recite passage 6 from Song of Myself by Walt Whitman. Do that, and you will have made his life worthwhile.


Go to bed, you animals.

C.A. Dominick

Copyright ©2006 Charles Anthony Dominick (one more time, for good measure and all)