mad drunk genius

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

Month: June, 2009

My life, my love/I saw you were getting married

My life, my love

I met you at Wal-Mart and found you buying bras. You were embarrassed, but you shouldn’t have been. I was drunk, but I shouldn’t have been. I recognized you, but only barely, and said hello, and loved you as you once loved me.

You filled my dreams with thoughts of yore, with memories of times lost to time, of memories that never happened. I blame you (I must, you know) but I love you more now for it than I ever did then.

We should have been together, should be together, but you have two kids, darling, lovely thing, and you won’t be with me now, if you ever would have. So I’m stuck in my mind, in my dreams, sleeping and thinking of you and the things that spring forth from your associations. Ho ho! How terrible, nostalgia.

I’d trade it for nothing, though, I think, my sweet Allison.

I saw you were getting married

Oh my darling (oh darling who could have, should have, still might have been my darling). You, you don’t know who you are, but I do (and he does, but if he says anything of it, I’ll take his body out of town and dump it in that ditch) are finally getting married. So salutations and congratulations on this marvelous occasion. You whore.

Getting married at our age? You’re pregnant, aren’t you? I bet so you nasty cunt, got knocked up and then decided to put a ring on your finger. YOU AREN’T FOOLING ANYONE. Least of all me.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t think of it so much as LOSING an old crush as GAINING a mortal enemy. Your new husband is a fucking faggot piece of shit, and one day he won’t come home. He’ll have run off (you’ll think) and then I’ll be there to console you and make everything OK.

Ah, already I miss your tiny mouth (it was so small, I can’t believe it even now). You were so short, but your breasts were enormous. You talked of getting breast reduction surgery for your back’s sake, and I pleaded with you not to do it, for mankind’s sake. Just stay on your back where you belonged and they wouldn’t give you any problems, I said. (AND YOU LAUGHED! My God, what kind of woman were you?)

You lost so much weight during that one year of junior high school (that must be where your breasts came from). I wonder if you ever gained it back? The last I saw you (was it four years ago, between the buildings at old OC?) you still hadn’t, were still so pretty, were still so nice. I choose to remember you like this, regardless, like this or something before. I should have said yes to the dance. Alas, such a cute lass you were.

Whatever. I wish you well, is the point of all this. I really do wish you well. You always seemed a genuinely nice person, deserving happiness when so few of us do. I didn’t know you then, not really, and I’m sure less now, but for a time you liked me, and for that, I’ll always love you, in the fond, nostalgic way I love anything I love. Sweet and artificial, but I hope the love you have is real, your wedding of joy and not necessity, or even if so, something grows so that your adult life is a happy one. I’m sure his will be as long as he’s with you.

From far away, floating and remote, I care. But I don’t want anything to do with you, your life, especially not now. Still, I’d like to hear later that things are well with you, because that helps keep me well, in the vicarious way that always satisfies.

My senior year, someone killed my best friend’s dog and hung it from a tree

He wasn’t the first one up that morning, but he was the first one to look out the window into the backyard. That’s what he said, anyway. His parents had already left for work when he called them to tell them.

They took him out of school for a few weeks and sent him to counseling. The whole thing was just odd. I didn’t know of anyone who hated him enough to do it, and no other animals were killed in the neighborhood, or as far as I know, the rest of the city.

He didn’t like to talk about it, and I never pressed him on what happened. It was just odd, and since we went off to different colleges, I found other friends.

I have a longing for eternity

When it’s night, I want it to be night forever. When it’s day, I want it to be day forever. When it’s summer, I love the heat. When it’s winter, I love the cold. When I’m awake, I never want to sleep again. When I’m drowsy or dreaming, I never want to wake.

The last one is the only one I have any kind of control over, and when I’m on my own schedule, I tend toward extremes. Up two days, asleep for one. Up four days, asleep for two.

I want to live forever only because I’m living now, I think.

But one day I’ll die and probably want to stay dead forever, and then I bet I’ll get my wish.

There is no novel idea

Except, perhaps, in insanity. All else is repetition, interpretation, and reinvention.

Originality is saying an old idea well, putting it into the proper words for a particular audience. Great originality is to make one’s audience the universe.
When the Old Testament prophets said that everyone was subject to God’s law, this was insanity. Ridiculous nonsense some Jewish hermit in a cave heard in a voice in his head while he shat down his own leg. But he preached it, openly and to many, and someone took the idea, mulled on it, and either shared it or wrote it down himself into something coherent.
There’s nothing bad about this, but it does have to stay rare. Marginalize insanity as much as possible, but mix it some more when things get stale. Most of the time, we’re going to rehash and refine, and enjoy it. That’s why every movie and video game is a sequel, why most books worth reading contain allusions to previous works, or why reboots are so common. That was myths for thousands of years, before coherent narratives, continuity, or plagiarism existed.

It eventually tends to the cliche, because even the wittiest idea becomes cliche if repeated enough. But that’s when the fresh insanity sweeps in and jumbles everything all over again.

If I can’t be wonderful, I think I’d like to be terrible

In reality, of course, I’m nothing more than mediocre. To be exceptional, my only options are exceptional depravity or destruction, and that’s as lame and gay a prospect in actions as it sounds to write.

Virginia Tech’s Cho was a terrible writer, from what little I read of him. He’s famous now, and more people have read what he wrote than otherwise would have (and even now, should have), but killing 30 people didn’t make him a better writer. Or his existence anymore worthwhile.
In effect, Seung-Hui Cho was a forgettable person who accomplished nothing in life but getting himself remembered. Hitler may have been a so-so painter, but he was genuinely gifted as a speaker and mover of people. He used his talent poorly (broken link), but he had talent. At nothing am I so talented as Hitler was at speaking to people. I don’t think I could kill more than a few dozen Jews, really.
I haven’t slept well in three days. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m not saying it well, in any case, of that I’m sure.
I can never be Shakespeare, Orwell, or even Christopher Paolini. Which is depressing. God is it depressing.
I could be Albert Fish, but I don’t particularly want to shove nails into my ballsack.
Hmm.
Maybe the point, then, isn’t to be exceptional to the world, but to find someone you’re exceptional to, have children, and give them a joyful, if not always happy life. Bourgeois, perhaps, but we all think we’re middle class already.

Damn it. The backs of my eyeballs hurt. I need to go sleep or do some coke or give myself an enema with a gay man’s dick or something.

It’s strange, but failures are always much more interesting than success

Which is nice, because the failures seem to come much more often than the successes.

(I feel like I’ve written this exact thing before, but maybe I’ve just thought it.)

I hate people who tell stories with the intention of bragging on the sly. It irks me in an irrational way. Tell me you were involved in a hit-and-run with an elderly woman and I’ll think better of you than slipping in a story about how smart such-and-such person thought you were.

And that’s when a person tells the truth. Better to pour salt in an infant’s eye than exaggerate or invent a story for your own benefit.

But I’m not a stickler for honesty. In fact, a good lie is sometimes appropriate. The whole issue is motivation. Some things a person is justified in lying about. Some times it’s proper.

I’ll try one example.

“In college, I did so well in history classes, the social sciences department gave me an award.”

Dick move. Douchebag fag.

But wait! There’s more.

“Anyway, there was this ceremony we all had to go to and we sat in the crowd and went up to the stage whenever our names were called to get the award. There were tons of awards. Students and staff from every department, most of their friends, some parents. Auditorium was packed.

“So after half an hour, an hour, I get my name called, I get up, and I trot up toward the stage. People are clapping, my professor is standing at the top of the steps with the plaque, and I smile at him and reach my hand out then all of a sudden the step disappears below my right root and jumps up into my left knee. The applause patters to a stop and there’s a collective groan as I tumble to the floor.

“I pop up, smile sheepishly, and give everyone the thumbs up, then they laugh as my professor bends down to hand me the award and I go back to my seat and slide down as far as I can.”

Well anyway, I’m done. The point I was going for is that any lie that helps make a story better is a good one, and when the point of telling a story is to entertain, it should be done. When there are too many fibs or they become too absurd without compensatory entertainment, these are bad lies.

Better if you don’t have to lie, but good if you do and still no one cares.

It’s the embarrassing, awkward, would-be-tragic-if they-weren’t-so-silly things that make life worth living in retelling. At least that’s what I tell myself whenever they happen.

I met a man with three eyes once, two on his face and one he called hidden

He said he’d show me the third in private sometime, if I liked and would ask him. I declined, but amiably so as not to offend him and his gracious offer.

He smiled and nodded knowingly, but what he knew, I knew not. Some things I don’t mind not knowing. The world should retain some air of mystery, after all.

He walked away and left me there, wondering, belatedly, just how he got to be so ocularly-endowed. Born or grown or added surgically, or even appeared one day to be discovered.

I tell people this sometimes and they ask me where the eye was, and perhaps I should have asked him. But I didn’t care then, and still do not. People ask how he looked, and I say, “Average.” Because he did, and if he hadn’t told me about his (…what’s the nice word for deformity?), I never would have suspected.

That’s the thing about the fantastic. It often travels incognito.

I came home from work and found the dragon lounging on the futon in the living room

She was watching T.V. — something about a little girl gone missing — and drinking beer, but there were only four bottles empty and one half-full sitting near her.

“You woke up late today,” I said. I went to the kitchen table to set down my keys, then looked through some of the bills and junk letters I still hadn’t gotten to. “Did you get a chance to check the mail?”

“Not yet,” the dragon said. She finished the fifth bottle and turned over. Her eyes looked toward me, but didn’t seem to focus on where I was. “Could you be a dear and get me another drink?”

“Sure.” I got one out of the fridge and opened the trash to throw away the lid. “I thought I took out the trash this morning before I went to work.”

The dragon said nothing.

“I said, ‘I thought I took out the trash this morning before I went to work.’ ”

“I don’t know.” She yawned. “Did you?”

“Yeah. I did. And now there’s at least a dozen empty Budweisers and a bottle of wine I was saving for something.” I dug it out and came back to the living room to show her. “I told you about this, goddamn it.”

She sighed and a plume of smoke left her nostrils. “I’m sorry. I guess I forgot. I had a friend over and we needed something sweet to drink. If you feel that bad, why don’t you drink that beer and get me another when you’re done.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Well I believe in me.” She got up from the futon and slid down the hall toward the bathroom. I could hardly see the futon’s fabric for the scales. “A shame what happened to that little girl,” she said after she’d shut the door. “She was so pretty, and she just disappeared. Her parents must be so scared. They’ll never find her, of course.” I heard the shower come on. Steam poured out from the under the door. “I don’t think they want to know what happened, really. They’re better off wondering than knowing. Some things people shouldn’t know.” A gargle. “That poor girl,” the dragon said again.

“I don’t give a fuck about the stupid girl or her parents!” I yelled, not because I was angry, but just so that she could hear me. “I want to know why you drank my fucking wine.”

“I just forgot,” the dragon said. “Like I said, I’m sorry. Go get some cash from my dresser, if you like. Take whatever you think is fair.”

I left the beer on the kitchen table and took the empty wine bottle with me to her room. I stepped into her room, dropped the wine bottle there, then went back to mine. I didn’t take any money. I put on my headphones, laid down on my bed, and waited for the feeling of nausea to pass.