The new me or the new new me

I took a solo cab ride home tonight. During this ride I talked with the cab driver about what I am doing, my age, my desires, and the meaning of words.

All I did was lie.

I told him I was twenty two. He said my glasses made me look thirty. I told him I was a journalism major about to transfer to UCLA. He was confused by this. I told him to make a right on to the street Tribune. He kept asking what that word meant. He was talking about Times, Chronicle, and Daily. He stopped at an ATM so I could take out money. I left the door open just to fuck with him. He dropped me off and I tipped him $3.95. I had to pay into that karmic jar; I work tomorrow.

This is just a symptom.

Why lie to a cab driver? Why not??

I lie to people I care about and to people I could care less about. I rehearse stories and scenes to seem interesting and appealing. The stories are true; and my retelling is flawless. But I feel empty. How many times can I tell someone about the time I dumped a girl because she interrupted my first viewing of Swingers? Apparently one more time.

I'm nothing without my words. I'm shit with out my stories. I'm worthless without my past.

And I guess that puts me at this spot I've been seeping in the last two weeks. Why I'm not writing her, why I don't care about this.

I keep cutting open my chest for someone to see. But I don't know if anyone notices. I bleed enough in my own head.

My emo heart has taken a beating, and I am running out of ways to talk about it.