mad drunk genius

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

Tag: Drinking

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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August 2015: If I cant just get a little high tonite, I ought to get real drunk

Aug. 6, 2015
The lights are too dim, but you get used to it.
——The difference between an art museum & art for sale
——at posh coffee shops & cocktail lounges is the exhibitions
——occasionally change at the museum.
What luck that we wake together in this universe with our shared consciousness!
——’But to conclude our previous conversation…’
Bringing a child to watch performance art is like playing Russian Roulette
with a few rounds of formative trauma chambered.
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It’s OK. I know it is

I’m in a relationship. I have been for coming up on two years, and it’s been healthy & amazing & surprising in oh so many ways.

I have fun, certainly. I love her, and she loves me. She takes care of me & makes me happy. What else is there or could be?

But I cant commit.

It’s the stupidest fucking thing, too. I can always say, ‘Three months from now, it’ll all be over.’ And that makes everything OK. But six months more of anything is abominable.

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Scribbled year-old impressions recovered

——’Isnt it a lovely
——sweet sort of fresh
——sort of something?’
The window for success
is always opening in
some places & closing in
others. It’s important to
make it as large as
possible & squeeze thru.
——’It’s OK, we’re all subject
——to the bias of our own
——lives & experiences.’
Hey, keep your eyes on the
prize but also on the path
to it.

——’I dont do all the great work
——I could have.’ No one has or
——does. ‘There’s some possible
——universe where I did, tho.’
I am not the man I used to
be. But I havent long been
a man, if ever.
——’Show me how to
——know better what to do.’
——’Do what?’ ‘That’s what
——I’m asking.’

My body is a temple, but all that’s left is the wailing wall.

When I trip, I try to find a way to see God, but
usually just catch glimpses of the devil.

I am the same person  I was as a child tho no atom, idea or possession remains as it was.
Identity is same-lifetime reincarnation.
——Drinking is its own activity.
Alcohol has more than enough variation & substances, more than an alcohol
ever will appreciate.
——Inebriation lies beyond the laws of math — one becomes ten immediately.
I can tell I’m old because I need sincerity even in parody.

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‘I dont want to mess you up if yr on a roll’ / ‘I dont have anything’

I dont know. I want to write something with purpose, something with a structure that can have some sort of message or at least plot. And  I cant even do that currently. Not even close, even.

What’s happened?

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I’m sure the tree comes to love the vine, in its way

The human world whole & thru is depraved, selfish
& miserable except the idea that it doesnt or
shouldnt have to be.
——’I cant fundraise for human right like gays being able to
——raise children.’
I hate people in aggregate but love their particulars.
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Weak acid is a persistent chubby for yr whole existence.

‘It’s my birthday. Isnt it my birthday?’
——Bars exist to help give strangers a place to gather till they get
——just drunk enough not to care no one knows them.
‘I’m glad I got that off my chest,’ the scat fetishist said.
‘Whiskey neat is like [a novel]. It’s a process. There’s a beginning, a middle & an end.’
——A very cleansing poop, the soothsayer says.
‘It’s my birthdaaaaaay,’ she says, standing on the seat, cushioned.
——Ginger Falcon Punch to the face.
The brown-noser. The bookworm. The hippie.
——Weak acid is a persistent chubby for yr whole existence.
‘Nice sweater, bitch.’
——’You’re rad. Taste my weiner sauce.’
‘It’s my birthday in 11 — no, in 43 minutes.’
——It’s the power of art that someone often first relates their life
——events to some fictional happening.
Most of what happens to everyone else is fictitious, but so is
everything that happens to you.

Everyone ages & tempers their vices or gets consumed by them

The man with half an ear gave directions to the drunk who thought he was on the No. 16.
——I’m a drinker with a writing problem.
Everyone ages & tempers their vices or gets consumed by them.
——Wants jealous are, & if not tamed can stand being second to nothing.
The dog runs everywhere; the girl places beads upon clothed male really in
unknowing mockery of the silly custom.

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The Vital 5 Review – A September drunk

——Stranger things have happened than It’s cute,
——a man ejaculating ants, you know. isn’t it?
If you cut him, he’d bleed money.’ This chemical response.
——I HATE BEING INCONVENIENCED.
Psychedelic mayflies, bursting, soaring, withering,
extinguished.
 Art is an end to itself. Nothing ever ends.
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