Saturday, August 4, 2007

This isn't me.

I remember when I was about two, maybe three, and my father and I lived in this appartment in Buffalo New York. We were pretty poor. We sorted change (including pennies) to buy bread and milk. I remember my dad worked as a bartender at a pretty rough bar. He wasn't home most nights. I think I had a small bed to sleep on or some sort of love seat type arrangement, and he slept on a matress on the floor.

We had nothing.

This life I'm living now, in some way just doesn't seem to fit me really. I'm not really sure who I am anymore.

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