mad drunk genius

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

Tag: Alcohol

You’ve loved this much before & know how it ends

Knowing & behaving are cousins, but only
kissing cousins. To be fair, well, we already lost.
——Whores know better than to kiss on the
——mouth. That’s how you mix up work & love,
——esp. when both are pleasurable. But I havent
——learned that yet, or ifI have, I cant
——quit doing it. You cant come back.
There is inside me a powerful critic, good & useful
& worthwhile when pointed at a great many things.
But at myself, in a depression, it is nothing but a
magnificent rot, spreading horrible into everything, esp.
what I love. The peculiar genius is to connect all
that makes me happy back to some triggering incident of
unhappiness. ‘Your grandmother is dying & you’re too
old to be enjoying cartoons.’ ‘Your family is in pre-mourning,
and you dont even bother to tell them about those you
love or why.’ ‘Everything you write is embarrassing,
not just too you but anyone who is connected to you.’
——Your happiness is no less worthy.
I dont see how ‘I ruin people’ is a good addition to my
resume, no matter how accurate it is. She knew better.
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How many socks is everything

At a college bar, arguing art, inspiration, the genius of Jim Morrison. At the end was he still clever and the poetry just too much unrestrained genius for mere mortals to comprehend, or was it just the pure unadulterated shit from a lazy and undisciplined former talent?

It’s the tension, I said. The need to be creative in opposition to something. It’s the Prolific and the Devouring. The Satanic creativity chokes itself to death without some fire coming to burn up the chaff, to force it to go beyond its own wont and find some new path.

But my trouble ain’t in not having restraint; like most people it’s not having enough genius. My brain don’t have the good thoughts anymore, my eye has cataracts even for what it sees clear. I can’t hear nothing, and what I do hear, I don’t write down so it’s just lost.

The other day, on the bus, fellow says, ‘I can’t talk. I used to be pretty. I’m kinda fat now. And nappy-headed. But I’m still pretty.’ ‘Cept not that exactly because he used a different word than pretty before using a mocking an African immigrant next to him and ‘joking’ for 10 minutes about eating his dog. Dude was drunk and stoned, but that’s just a bus ride, and I warnt drug nor stoned and didn’t write down nothing so what even was the point of bothering to notice or drop eaves?

There’s creativity just in bothering to notice reality and preserve it, present it in a certain way. I lost it. All I got left is arguing with people, writing in opposition to an idea. Hatred and spite, that’s all I can manage. It’s all I’m good for, some inert blob except when provoked, like a frog corpse that kicks reflexively when jolted with electricity.

After the original argument at that same college bar, I played darts on boards warped tit-shape till some fellow rolling on I don’t know what did climb up on his drink table, then go lay down on a pool table, then get coaxed down to take off shoes and socks for maybe half an hour before climbing again on the table and starting to play with his fly as like to try to water the billiard green. That brought the server and bartender, and he got off but laid down on a second pool table, then chased off that, laid down on the first one again till he got pulled off by his ankles and threatened with physical violence to get the fuck on out.

But I didn’t take any details down in the moment, no shirt color, nothing about the hair style, or how many socks he had on going out the door, and that’s fucking life man! That’s everything.

I used to have people who’d ask and chew me out for not knowing what color eyes a dead toddler had, and now I can’t even count socks. So what’s the point?

There are already simulations of you out there & more to come

When I drank a lot more, and wrote slightly more, I used to sound like a religious paranoid schizophrenic, manic-depressive with delusions of grandeur and a handful of nearly obsessive associations.

——Humanity is a perversely well-beloved pustule on
——the face of God that’s appreciated for ripening &
—— soon bursting open in  cysty self-destruction.

——’I smell blood!’ the first shark yelled between his guffaw.
——’Why so do I!’ the second chortled.
——But it was just uterine lining.

I am tired & hot & sore and
staring at the ceiling because
the backs of my eyelids are
a view that provides no rest.

There’s an app to take your Facebook statuses and use them to write something about like you’d say. A bit of you, an exaggerated & often nonsensical but occasionally a reminder you’re not so hard to simulate as you might think.

Some of them aren’t anything like what I’d say, only because the grammar is off a bit.

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Never share your Netflix password; everyone dies alone

I noticed my most recent ex unfriended me on Facebook, so I deleted her Netflix profile and changed the password less out of retaliation than a desire to no longer see her name show up when I wanted to binge watch TV.

And the worst thing about it is not that I miss her or that this will impact my life in any meaningful way, except for some angry drunken texts from her I expect in the next few days.

The worst thing is that this is a parody of how a modern relationship goes, and the last ties that get severed are not meaningful face-to-face conversations or closure but discrete events in superficial electronic consumption.

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A smartphone is a fine excuse to avoid self-interrogation

July 2, 2016
——I dont know what my word cloud would show.
Some things known cant be unknown.
——’Birth control is a women’s issue’ is not trans-inclusive.
‘Civil, right?’
——It’s stupid to continue to invest in past relationships
——just because they are safely impossible.
I want to leave her, but not for that.
——It may have been my fault anyway. But honesty never was
——something to benefit anything but my own vanity.
How else could we have done it?
——Whatever. I am what I am.
Tell the story of yourself with actions, not words.
——The depths of my compassion is visible from the surface.
A collection of accidents, connecting the dots. A life, a narrative.
——‘The truth is not a luxury.’
History forgets all; most it never remembers.

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There is no end to the last days

Bacon from the back. Bounty for the good bonus. A boudoir, to have a place to pout.

Fear nothing, dreadnought. Nautical noisy nausea. Leave work to go debauch. But if god deems it doomsday, we’ll all be judged.

Doctors are learned people who teach. Old Saxon dipping was dopian, baptizing, then the doop any viscous sauce before one in particular. So some are baptized by water, others by fire, but the dope is the baptism itself, and not everyone comes back up for air.  That’s why the dope fiend droops, and addiction is its own religion.

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It’s better to be kind than clever

Scribbles on the bedroom wall of a hand-me-friend
apartment, mattress & box spring on the bluey purple
flecked carpet. A duct-taped chair with towel
on the back, a mirror on the floor caked in melted
snow men. A glass table. A pond paining. On
the outside of the door, four Cascadia flag stickers.
——I’m drunk already on swings of Trader Joe’s
——’Blended Scotch Whisky’ but I can tell the light
——switch cover is off-balance.
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The first chemical dependency is happiness.

Everything is

going to be all

right. We just

have to try

real hard.

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Everything above is gray; what’s below is green.

Everything is a fine scurrying about between permanent stillness.

It’s not the pretty day got me out the house, but the event.
This truly is a holy day.

Soon all the quaint homes with moss-green roofs will be gone.
But the moss only for a little while.

Language is meant to coordinate our solar batteries into some
action preserving us & our offspring. Read the rest of this entry »

And then one day no suns will rise on anyone again

It’s terrifying to think how much of your life & actions can be predicted accurately by probability. For you, an interaction with someone in customer service is you making decisions about what to say and do. But for them, you’re just repeating something from one of a handful of categories they hear every day.

Poll a thousand people picked randomly enough and you’ve got a great idea of what 300 million will do.

If instead of an election, we had a full census and lottery, and picked a thousand to come serve in Congress for two years, we’d have the equivalent of a full, direct democracy.

This is terrifying. You’re not a creature with agency & will: all of your complexity gets smoothed out when there’s even more complexity to average out around you. How miserable, that all those billions of years & hundred trillion cells in your body, all coming to this, to make you the same as millions of other people.

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