finding fool's gold

you used to be more interesting, she told me. you used to do more. have more ambition. it is what it is i say and i wonder if i've become so passive that sharp tongues juss sorta roll past me. to truth, i've been waiting for her to say that for awhile. since when? since hell, this time she was waiting around for joe to come around and pick her up. and i thought how funny it was that he was picking her up on his bike, which really just meant that they were going bike riding. i bought a bike once. last summer. and i promptly filled the tires and stored the damn thing because of a magazine article i read about studies on testicular cancer. it didn't specifically note correlations but it got me remembering the very many cyclists i'd heard in the news that had come down with balls cancer. i don't want balls cancer or any cancer. but i do want to finish my story's point. how i knew that she'd get around to the point that i'd lost my interest. she told me i don't write anymore. i could protest but the fact that this entry is two years in the making would put reason in her corner. i don't fill my life with arts now. i dont create anything. i dont enjoy political discourse like i used to. what's that say? it's that i'm not an arty kid. that the phase i was playing through a few years ago was me touching doorknobs feeling for what were roadbloacks and what were new paths. it is discouraging to ewxognize that you're not going to be famous for your athletic talents or written words. i am bland. and i'm often imbued with a grumpy demeanor. the kind that seethes with frustration because expectations fell through. i don't find myself particularly interesting but the unsettling part is that now alarms me is how deep my unpleasantness goes.