July 2011: Sobriety is weird, and uncomfortable.
‘The atom bomb, I have long preached, is the greatest invention that Yahweh has made since Leprosy. Certainly it has given great glory to the Christian physicists of this country. Try to imagine a decent cannibal throwing it on a town full of women and children.’ — H.L. Mencken
Growing older is a form of leprosy, turning white & numb to everything.
I’ve drank till daylight three nights running. Now I drink at my apartment alone. But hopefully till the sun peeks up again.
——Sonora, Junction, Victoria, Odessa, Kermit, Jal; Austin, San Marcos, Texas State, North Texas, Interstate 10 & sheets soaked with sweat, practically saints antiquing.
——Rutting season, county road, Roman Artemis beneath the moon, sun roof & back seats leather & not, county road & state line. Cormac McCarthy, Black/White, 500 Days of Summer, HBO, TCM, Audrie Hepburn, Truman Capote, Winston Churchill, Ernest Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, Janis Joplin.
——Pizza Hut, roast chicken, potato salad. Red Stag, Gentlemen Jack. Wet bathroom floors, very hygienic people. The Spiderhouse Lounge, The Onion, a green field on a hill but children playing.
——So much lying around. Never any lying, except to yourselves.
——All good, tho. No complaints.
You should be happy, or try to be. But you never will, doing what you’re doing, as you’re doing. You’ll only fail & sigh & wonder why things never worked out the way you’d planned.
‘Kaput : ( ‘
I blame white people.
My brain is not addled with anything, even exhaustion. The only buzz is looming tiredness, which I fight now, with coffee. And no exciting thoughts come to me. And there’s nothing exciting to make external.
Sometimes I whine, ‘Nobody understands me!’ but then they remind me I just mumble too much.
‘Watership Down’ is as good as I’ve been told. My eyes are heavy but my heart, glad.
- Furthermore, my moves, Jagger.
I am a multi-tonal joyful shout of EXCESSIVE right now. But I’ll need more coffee soon.
- Yet I know if I go home to shower (which is necessary), I will fall asleep on the bathroom floor. Again.
I hope that miserable cunt is dried up & childless.
cunt cunt, cunt cunt cunt cunt, cunt nigger, cunt nigger cunt, cunt cunt
- He: i’m hoping i’ve made it to the inner layers of your facebook friends by now. ohterwise, i’d hate to know what you only say to them.
- Wow, I must have been trashed. I should have written, “cunt cunt, cunt cunt cunt, cunt nigger, cunt nigger nigger, cunt”
I smell vomit. I think it’s just in my throat.
Usually, we can’t know what a person’s thoughts are that move their limbs & acts. But tear down the conscious enough & we’re transparent, thought to movement, want to do.
More! More! Please not less yet. The lessening of experience concludes suddenly or gradually in the Great Non when there’s nothing to know, and before that, no organ which can know.
- Let me only fix her & make her happy again, and then I think my own satisfaction would follow as surely as rutting buck after a doe in heat.
Well, there’s more to life than being drunk, I guess.
- The thing of it was, I guess, I terribly enjoyed being inside my own head for once in a long while. And most of the time I just want to be smacked very hard with a sledgehammer & piss myself & drool in an asylum somewhere till I die at 36.
I’m up early (well, I didn’t sleep), and it’s a good morning. Times like these call for porches, and couches on them. And people to sit on them. (And probably soon fall asleep.)
——I know when I wake, I’ll be a miserable, insufferable bastard again, if not tomorrow then Wednesday, but I’m pleasant enough now not even to regret this.
——Some clever neon baubles may fill my dreams yet tonite.
- Somehow I still feel a little like Peter from Office Space.
A person can no more battle cancer than a Persian king can punish the sea.
- ——I aspire to be a fox. I long, even, to be a jackal.
- Oh Christ! Please let me hear & be noisy & scream, all teary-eyed & faggy, at the universe to go FUCK itself. I can see it & it can’t even see itself.
- But it cant see me, or wouldn’t care to, and wouldn’t be impressed by the view I got.
- It’s all I got tho.
- Christ. 8,864 days old, & I got this to show for it. Christ. Why try to make it to 10,000?
- Oh bother. [Aug 2011]
The moon’s not out, anymore.
It’s not right that this should still bother me. Or even be able to.
- ——Who ever knew one person could ruin so many good things, as the Warsaw Jews said of Haman in 1933.
- ‘I am absolutely in love with this woman.
- She’s smarter than I am, or she reads more books than I do and knows more about literature while I may know a little more about history. She’s a writer, like legit newspaper-journalist who drinks Jack Daniels on the rocks and can handle at least as much as I can, although I’m prone to proceed to blackout drinking and she’s more likely to stop.
- And she’s sexually ravenous. I can never sate her. I can wear her out to the point we’re both covered in sweat and sore and dehydrated and we can’t move anymore, but we can still make love and she can still have wonderful orgasms that make me feel sad to be a man.
- Then we lay in bed and talk about Winston Churchill and Hemingway, sleep, shower, eat, and fuck once or twice between all of these.
- I love her about as much as I think I can love anyone. But she lives 400 miles away, so we see each other once every few weekends, and even though we’re not anything officially romantic, I can’t stop myself from fucking other people. And I know I don’t want to marry her, but I would love to spend five of the best years of my life with her.
- And I don’t know what to do with myself.’ [Aug 2011, quoting unk date]
Sobriety is weird, and uncomfortable.
- H1: But you learn to get through it. Netflix helps; I’ve watched seven episodes of Parks & Recreation (Amy Poehler’s NBC sitcom) tonight, and I feel great.
- I DON’T WANT YOUR LIFE
- H1: I’m just saying–TV shows are a great outlet for an addictive personality (like mine). I got seasons 1 and 2 of Mad Men when they were on sale at Christmas from my sister. Seasons 3 and 4 start streaming on Netflix this week, the 27th. That’s dedication, aka psychic energy I can devote somewhere other than alcohol.
- Making oneself a passive receptacle, even to genius, is no substitute to living. In the end, all we have left is interesting stories to tell, and if lucky, to be in other people’s.
- H2: I’m not drunk enough for this convo.
Ah! This wild, undiscovered country goes on forever in the hypersphere that is mine skull.
What a lively (lovely) young lady in a gray ankle-length dress, arse in full display. So quick & easy to push up & out of the way or slip off, even.
- What stupid fucking miserable nonsense. [Aug 2011]
27 is not 34.
‘I’m sick of these people,’ said the tick to the flea.