mad drunk genius

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

Tag: ecstasy

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.

Yen yaw ken: a credo

Darlin, you are a beautiful & gorgeous thing, like archetype of modern American life, and it’s fabulous & fantastic ‘cept yr hangups with one fellow, which is sad & limiting & unfortunate.

To live & exert, to be lusty for everything, esp. life & chronicalling it is the chief end of (wo)man. ‘Sex is good, and people should be happy.’ Yen, yaw, ken. (yearn, deviate, understand).

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You can’t imagine how good it is to be me.

A Charles Darwin quote is making its way around the Internet lately which is just delightful.

“But I am very poorly today & very stupid & hate everybody & everything. One lives only to make blunders.”

And here he’s 29, and presumably not an alcoholic, but he has the most familiar feeling in the world to me, at least when I’m not drinking. (And occasionally when I am, but that’s terrifying.)

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Wretched Man

I loved her. For a time I worshipped her, but I always loved her. Heart and mind and soul, but never body. Never body. My eyes did much loving, but such loving would not long do. An appetite whetted cannot so easily be sated, and I’m afraid to admit that my feelings began to turn to hate once I saw that my advances and potential advances would always be rejected and deflected so carelessly. She was a goddess, and I was a lowly follower, offering meaningless sacrifices in her name.

As much as I’d loved her, I hate her twice more. Ten more. A score, a hundredfold. Ah, what does it matter! What I did is done and though I am undone it cannot be. It should never be. An ecstasy should never be recanted once fulfilled, but mine should be. It most certainly should be.

The depraved ramblings of a diseased mind. Diseased and rotting with filth, but alive. Alive and active and hungry. Always hungry, but sharper still. Sharp as a tack, sharp as a knife, sharp as the needle that plunges into my flesh and gives my mind rest at last.

But I should not speak of what I did. A confession is a repression and and I will surely sink into depression if I do that. Let me be jjubilantand  rejoice, let my loving heart, mind, and soul rejoice for all of their wanting. Let me want until I want no more. Let my body jump and twist in agony for its having.

Wretched man that I am, I deserve no better.