December 2011: Life is so goddamned boring when you can remember all of yesterday in the morning.

by maddrunkgenius

I am back — & the ethanol Christ-incarnate — that God KNOWS everyone missed so much.

People wonder how hell could be infinitely horrible. How, after long enough you wouldn’t just become accustomed to something & even torture, however awful, wouldn’t just be life as normal. 

The answer is that in hell you aren’t guaranteed to be the same as you are now. 

If in heaven you get a new body, why not hell, too? If heaven is something more, why not hell something less?

Infinite pain is being taken apart, forever, into component parts that understand even less in part than you did on earth. Not face to face or even through mirror darkly, but out of the corner of one’s eye & with one-hundredth of one’s brain — forever. 

But interspersed with moments where one is allowed to fully understand one’s situation. 

This is hell. And it lasts forever.

Also, girls with small tits are hottest with a shirt on, but nothing else. 
Mmmm, the sweet taste of fresh pussy.

My dreams lately have been obsessed with sex, more than usual, I mean.
Terrible, twisted dreams of all sorts. I shock even myself in the morning.

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
“A sense of obligation.”

Except there was no acknowledgment.

Oh pornography!

What awful stupid WRETCHED creatures, people.

I like to stick my dick in things, and then wonder if it will rot off.

—— ‘So she really turned you into a deer because she caught you watching her bathe?’
——’Well, it wasn’t because of that, and I already was a stag, but she turned half of me to a hound and I’ve been devouring myself ever since.’

I got a ticket for parking in the handicapped spot without a permit. I tried to tell the officer I’m emotionally crippled, but they said that didn’t count,.
Then they pepper-sprayed me.

He overheard the old man say,
Worth doing
Worth doing

Christopher Hitchens: “Writing is what’s important to me, and anything that helps me do that — or enhances and prolongs and deepens and sometimes intensifies argument and conversation — is worth it to me.” It was “impossible for me to imagine having my life without going to those parties, without having those late nights, without that second bottle.”

It’s not really her fault
Or anyone’s
It’s mine
I suppose
But it’s no one else’s fault
That’s what’s important.

All the same
Here I am.
And I’ll remain here
For some greater length of time
Then anyone ought ever spend anywhere
Like this.

But there’s always Clovis.
And a motel room.
And Cirrhosis.
And lungs full
Of vomit.

——’I think we should just be friends.’
——’Really? I mean, I thought we really had-‘
——’Actually, I don’t really even want to be your friend.
——’Or have conversations with you. Or have to acknowledge you. When you sneeze.’
——’I’m not trying to be mean, just honest.’
——’Can’t blame you for that.’

We’re not very important, individually or as a species. But we’re important enough to ourselves, and that’s really all that matters.
——I met a pretty girl, and I said, ‘Darling! How would you like to be famous?’
——And she said, ‘You could really make me famous?’
——And I said, ‘Doll, your face will be on every milk carton in America.’
——But I lied. She was chubby, and a minority, and no one cared.
 The only reason
I keep doing this
(aside from the chemical addiction
I mean)
Is that life is
So goddamned boring
When you can remember
All of yesterday
In the morning.
[Re:] My life is some strange sad mixture of the 5 second films ‘The Absence of Towels’ & ‘Don’t Sinko into De Struction’
And my grandmother said
(as I drove her to the airport at 4:30 a.m.)
‘You and your car
Stink of whiskey.
Do you have a drinking problem?’
To which I replied,
(in my head)
‘I only had 4
or maybe 6 shots last night
Because I knew I’d pick you up.
If I had a drinking problem
I’d be blacked out now.’
Out loud I said,
‘I don’t know
What you’re talking about.’
I’m dry. But not for much longer.
——I had a dream about having incredibly athletic sex with a skinny young woman I used to know.
——(I could count her ribs, to my delight.)
——It was long & erotic & realistic because, for some reason, we were both chewing gum for most of the duration; it was the mundane awkwardness of that that made it seem real, and enjoyable.
——At one point in particular I took my piece out, put it on the wood bed frame, hoping she hadn’t noticed, and began to eat her out (after trying before with the gum in it). When I went up to kiss her, she passed her piece into my mouth, mischievously.

——There wasn’t any climax, in the dream or in my pants to clean up when I woke, but it was one of the better dreams I can remember having.
One can hope.
Merry Christmas.
If you’re still getting hangovers, you aren’t drinking enough.
  •  (‘If you’re still getting hangovers you should drink like a grown up instead of a 16-year-old girl, puking into the upstairs toilet’.)

Re: Women breastfeeding in public at Target. ‘This fine, but I get to play with myself through my pocket while they do this.’

——’I think I’m going to have to kill myself,’ he said, mouth unsure whether to smile or grimace.
——’Really,’ she said, checking her phone. ‘How?’
——’Thoroughly,’ he said, eyebrows raised to indicate italics.
‘We were at a Walmart–‘
‘That’s how every great story starts.’
 A more clever version than himself — or one with hindsight’s benefit — would have had something very funny & biting to say. 

Instead he just watched her walk away, and paid their tab as she adjusted the strap on her purse.