mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

I am addicted to crack

When I say crack, I don’t mean the drug, but you should have figured that out without having to even click this. I actually mean crack as in the physical feature, that is on women. Now I don’t mean like a nude ass or anything. That’s a completely different subject i.e. nude women, and that requires no further explanation But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about plumber’s crack on women. Specifically skinny women, but occasionally larger girls have the same effect.

It’s been like this since at least junior high. So as long as I’ve been attracted to girls, I’ve been hooked on crack. High school escalated the problem because by then, uniforms were no longer required and many girls either wore thongs or no panties at all, and had hip hugging pants/shorts/skirts matched with short, untucked shirts. So I got to see a lot of it.

I would look over and see a girl sitting down, bottom of her shirt about three inches from the top of her pants, and in between the start of that magical line separating one bun from the other. Sometimes underwear was involved, but it was really special when there wasn’t.

I bring this up because today, someone was sitting away from me (a cute[ish] girl), and I had a clear view of her crack. What was my first response?

“All right.”

Imagine that said with a kind of subdued enthusiasm. That was the tone in my head. Anyway, I kept stealing glances over there all class, and I really couldn’t help myself.

Look, there’s porn all over the internet if I wanted it. There are girls walking around in skirts so short, I feel like an amateur gynecologist. But I don’t care about that, I want crack.

Explain to me why I find women’s crack attractive at all. Explain it to me, because I have no idea why it is, just that it is.

My eyes are open.

Suicide is often a major theme in fiction, and a widespread hobby among persons tired of having birthdays. This is common knowledge.

But what exactly is so awesome about suicide? Honestly, we all know it is. Not all forms of suicide are created equal, let’s get that out of the way right now. Swallowing a bunch of pills or cutting yourself, come on. That’s lame. It’s extremely anticlimactic and if you’re a man, you have no excuse. Women can do better, too, don’t get me wrong, but a woman falling asleep or bleeding out is this kind of tranquil scene we come to expect. But it’s still way lame.

When I say “suicide is awesome”, I of course mean throwing yourself off something very tall, or ideally, gunshot wound to the face. Because that’s when you know you’re a badass: closed casket. If there’s something left of you worth displaying, you obviously fucked up somewhere.

See, you have to express how pissed off you are at the world in your death. If it’s just a lethargic, “Oh, I’m filling up the bathtub with my blood,” then no one is going to care. Even if you put it on a webcam, that would be the most boring thing ever. But filming a gunshot wound to the face? Tell me with a straight face that wouldn’t be all over the internet in a day. You can’t. Know why? Because your face is blown off and you’re the most famous person in the world for a couple of weeks.

Bad. Ass.

I mean, I guess you could always try getting through whatever problems are causing you angst and try to make your life better and not hurt your loved ones, but FUCK THAT. Dude, your girlfriend broke up with you. Someone stole your iPod, it’s time be an hero.

Death to impress.

I’m an important person, I don’t care what you say.

I could live without you, but I couldn’t live without me. I’m the most important person in the world to me, and I matter as much as anybody does, so your opinion doesn’t count.

Hey, I’ve done things. I’ve been places. People know who I am when they’re talking to me. They may not remember my name when I walk off, but they remember me.

I’m an important person. All right? I mean a lot to people. I mean a lot to me, that’s what I mean.

Nobody asked you, anyway.

Craziest goddamned thing happened to me the other day.

The night shift is usually pretty slow, so I was just kind of sitting there in the convenience store reading the newspaper and listening to the radio, when all of a sudden out of nowhere comes this brick—WHAM—right straight into the goddamned window next to my head.

Anyway, that woke me up for damn sure, and I stood up and looked around for where it had come from and that’s when I saw these two old homeless guys out between the pumps going at it like they meant to kill one another. The trashcan had been knocked over, and they were throwing rocks back and forth. One of them had a squeegee in his hand and he was using it like a sword or something against the other. Craziest goddamned thing I’ve ever seen.

But I couldn’t just let them keep going after one another like that because when the boss came in in the morning and found out what they done to the place, I knew goddamned well what she’d do to me for being there and letting it happen.I went around and stuck my head out the door and said, “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing out there?”

“Exhibition fighting!” the, I guess shorter one said. “Extreme sport!”

The tall one charged about that time and tackled the short one and they rolled around on the ground for a while, punching and kicking, and it took me a few minutes to get their attention again.

“Why are you fighting for a sport?”

“Cause the pay’s good,” the tall one said, “All the porkchops we can eat, plus a harem of fine looking Martian broads for the winner.”

“Martians?” I said.

“Yeah,” the short one said as he ducked a punch and kneed the other in the crotch, “Martians pay good for street fights like this one. They watch it all the time on Martian television.”

“You’re crazy,” I said, “Martians aren’t real.”

“If they aren’t real, then who the hell is filming us right now?”

I looked around and didn’t see any film crew or anything and about then they stopped fighting and looked around, too.

“You mean to tell me we been scammed again?” the tall one said.

“What they say about Martians is true I guess,” the short one said, “Venus may rhyme with penis, but it’s the Martians who’re the dicks.”

Then the two of them walked off in different directions and I stood there awhile before I went back inside to get the stuff to clean everything up.

Craziest goddamned thing I’ve ever seen.

Fifth dream journal entry

Allow me to break character, probably for good.

All of this dream journal nonsense (if you’ve been keeping up with it), is based off of a story idea a fellow named Duskmon came up with at a forum I visit. I liked it, but disagreed with some of what he planned on doing with it, so I figured I’d give it a shot of my own, for shits and giggles (and ego).

I ran into a wall as usual, but that’s not important. What is important is that it actually happened to me several times this week. I fell asleep and fell in love.

I don’t fall in love in real life. If it’s not hate, it’s worship. That’s the only two options I got, and neither approaches love. But in my dreams, I am in love with this girl and we’re completely happy. Not the usual stuff that brings me pleasure in my dreams, actually normal, healthy stuff.

Different nights, different events, same girl, same relationship. Continuity, even though the dreams themselves differ. That’s insane. I mean, it’s wonderful, they’re as good of dreams as you can have, but dear God is that insane. I got the impulse to sleep to be happy. It’s seductive, because it’s idealistic, but real. Or as real as dreams get.

I still think Duskmon’s idea is a great story, but mainly because of the warning the story holds: letting go of reality for the sake of a dream has dire consequences. Wanting to fall asleep and never wake up again is suicidal, but in the context of a dream girl it’s happiness forever. It’s seductive in a way few things are.

Dreams aren’t reality, but they’re a form of reality that gives you something nothing else can. They can help you escape from reality in the same way most drugs can, but I think it gives you something better than that because the process is and feels natural.

Okay, I’m off on a tangent now but the point is, finding happiness in dreams is a dangerous thing. La Belle Dame Sans Merci. But what about when she is merciful?

I can control how things work in my own fiction. Tragedy is fine and poetic in fiction. Don’t much like it when things are out of my control in real life, though.