Time's got its foot on the gas, man. It's speeding up, and now that I'm older, it's downright terrifying. I feel this deep, desperate need to do something big, something that matters. Even if it doesn't stand the test of 200 years, I still want it to. People love to ask why. Why do I have to do anything important? Why do I feel the need to prove myself? But you know, the folks who ask that are usually on the same hustle, whether they admit it or not. They're out here trying to connect, trying to impress, just like everyone else. They're chasing something they saw in someone they admire, wearing the uniform, speaking the lingo, putting in the work to get noticed.
But damn, I’m losing my train of thought. The point is, I'm getting old, and I'm desperate to leave my mark. And it’s tough because, right now, I’m writing this from my car with a kitten bouncing off the walls. I’ve been trying to write an autobiography since '97, but time just keeps slipping through my fingers. It only seems to speed up the older I get. And yeah, I still smoke weed—though it's not doing me any favors—but I can't seem to quit. I'm living in my car, trying to make sense of everything, and this kitten’s doing laps like it's training for a marathon. The damn thing’s jumping from the dashboard to the backseat, then to the front, then back again, like it's got somewhere to be.
And let me tell you, I've been trying to clean this car out for 18 months. People say I'm lazy, but man, I'm just tired. Whether it’s age, the weed, or both, I can't tell. All I know is, this kitten's got more energy than I know what to do with, and I’m just trying to keep up.
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