Monday, January 30, 2006

so i guess i wrote this about a week or so ago and then just misplaced it or something...

Don’t bite through a martini glass.

So I was sitting there drinking Manhattans (twist of lime) and then it struck me.  Ha!  That was a wonderful story.  As if things strike me.  They don’t.  Nothing happens anymore.  There is no one around and the ones that are around have already grown tired of me.  They don’t say anything yet.  But I can tell.  I was always more perceptive than anyone gave me credit for.  I knew when you bastards didn’t like me.  And this isn’t just because I am drunk and depressed.  Not just anyway.  I know that’s a big part of it but still.  I am lonely.  Why won’t anyone help me?  I am here all by myself and the desperation is only getting stronger.  And I know that this isn’t going to end.  That I am going to be this way forever.  Lonely and desperate and pathetic.  The world spins round and round but nothing ever changes.  Why won’t someone love me?  Why won’t anyone care?

I could go on writing for hours.  Actually I can’t back that up.  I suppose I could if I wanted/needed to.  But it’s already late and I should be going to bed soon.  I work tomorrow and I don’t like being tired at work.  Not that I care all too much about my performance or anything like that.  It’s just that at work I like to be awake because being tired at work makes the hours go by that much slower.  And that is never a good thing.  When I drink I have words.  Or maybe it’s just that when I drink the words don’t stop coming so I have to let them out.  I’m sure I have just as many words when sober but I just am able to stop them from pouring out a little better.  So maybe drinking helps (in its way) but it isn’t the booze that makes me a writer and it isn’t the booze that makes me creative.  I am all of that on my own.  The booze just helps it all come to the surface.  It lets me be me as much as I need to be without stifling the raging monster within.  That was a horrible sentence and if it made any fucking sense, it shouldn’t have.  The thing with my writing is that I don’t seem to let the “beast” out often enough.  I don’t sit down and just write when I am sober.  Or whenever.  I don’t spend the time I need to on the writing.  I need to spend more time on this because if this is going to be my future I am going to need to take it more seriously.  And that is about all there is to it.  Fuck this.

There is a big hole in the right cuff of my good jeans (from having walked on it, they are a little long) and I don’t like it.  It is very annoying and there is very little I can do about it.  I could make the whole bigger (which would be worse) or I could try to fix it (which would make the hole bigger and be worse) or I could just let it go (which is not something that is all too easy for me).  What the fuck is that?  Letting go is hard for me?  Since when?  I have never held on to a grudge.  I don’t give a shit about anything.  What the fuck is going on right now?  Why am I not in bed?  I need to go to sleep.

Have to fly.  Have to fight.  Have to crow.

This shit is getting me nowhere.  Next lesson.

Even when I am lying I am telling the truth.  Even when I am telling the truth I am lying.

Man in the Dark Suit: If I were to give you a million dollars on the condition that you never wrote again, would you take it?
Billy Prophet: No.  I couldn’t.  It just wouldn’t work.

Show me the Way. The Way to go Home.

“I’m holding on too tight.  I’ve lost the edge.”
- Cougar, Top Gun

I just need to stop pushing.

Life.  The paycheck takes me far enough.  It pays the bills that keep on pressing down: the loans, gas, the cell, groceries, little enough booze.  So there is that.  And that much is important.  But.  But there isn’t much left at the end of the paycheck.  Mostly nothing.  And so there I am.  Average.  I get by.  But that’s it.  And not a shit lot more.  Just getting by is often much worse than not getting by at all.  In the end, the boredom will kill you.  And that is, by far, the worst way to go.  Not that I would really know.  And I can’t speak for anyone else.  You can never be sure.  Of anything.

Common sense is what tells you the world is flat.  Fair enough.  I’ll believe it.

“That’s a fake mustache!”
- Jeff, the Bartender, Starsky and Hutch

It’s not about being the best.  It’s about the hustle.  It’s about making that fucking money.

  • It’s been a while, man.  

  • Yeah.  I know.  

  • So, you got a job and all that shit.

  • Nope.  Why, you got one for me?

  • I’ll look around.

  • Please do.  I’m getting tired of being poor.

There was a lot more.  But I deleted it.  Dumped it.  It wasn’t that good.  Maybe I’ll show it to you later.  If you ask nice.

Crayon is not my medium.  The lines are far too indistinct.  

“Sometimes you gotta say, ‘What the fuck,’ make your move.”
- Miles, Risky Business

Regardless of what I say, it sounds like I’m fucking whining.  And that is bullshit.

From one professional to another: “Oh yeah?  Well, I fucked your wife.”

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

I’m just a soul whose intentions are good.

a vignette


Drunk on whiskey and dreams, I fall asleep on my couch.  Alone.  Again.

Tuesday.  My cell rings at 4:37 am.  But I don’t answer it.  I’m half asleep.  And still drunk.  And I’m just not ready to talk to her yet.  Besides, I already know what she’s going to say.  And I don’t have a good story to spin to her.  That’s tomorrow’s bullshit.  I fall back asleep.

My cell rings at 4:51 am.  I answer it and toss it across the room.  I can still hear her yelling.  I groan and get up.  I take a piss and head back.  I hang up the phone.  She was still yelling.

My cell rings at 5:07 am.  I just let it ring.  

My cell rings at 5:11 am.  I still don’t answer it.  I am too drunk and too tired to give a shit.  She has to give up eventually.

My cell rings at 5:20 am.  I don’t hear it.  I have fallen into a deep and peaceful sleep.  And not even her rage can wake me up now.

She doesn’t call again the rest of the morning.  Or the next day.  Instead she calls all of our friends.  Tries to turn them to her side.  Convince them that I am the asshole.  Dave tells me about it at work.  I’m not surprised.  She’s done it before.  She does it every time.  She’s never happy when we fight unless she wins, convinces me that she won, and then tells the world all about it.  As if they really need to know our business.  I am getting tired of it.  My friends are getting tired of it.  Dave told me to dump her.  Said she was pissing him off.  He won’t answer her calls anymore.  Sounds familiar.

Thursday.  My cell rings at 3:57 pm.  She wants to apologize.  I tell her it’s over.  She starts yelling.  She calls me an asshole.  I put the phone down and walk away.  I can hear her from the bathroom.  I sigh.  At least it’s the last time…

Saturday, January 7, 2006

I’m reviewing the situation

Notes found in jeans pocket after successful first date:

  • Say, “Hello.”  (SMILE!)

  • Give her a hug.  DON’T BE AWKWARD

  • Have a good conversation.

  • Talk about her, NOT about yourself

  • Tell her she is beautiful because SHE IS!!!

  • Talk about other things.

  • Things you have in common: what about Breakfast at Tiffany’s?

  • Etc.

  • Be a gentleman.  Open doors and all that.  

  • Walk her to her door.

  • Get a goodnight kiss.  mih.  DON’T BE AWKWARD.

“You could have it all: my empire of dirt.  I will let you down.  I will make you hurt.”
- Johnny Cash, “Hurt”

First: do no harm.  Then: do no good.

  • You don’t remember, do you?

  • No, I don’t.  I just can’t hear it anymore.

  • It’s a shame.  A fucking shame.

  • I know.  But she left me.  She didn’t even say goodbye.  How the fuck am I supposed to be?

  • I don’t know.  I’ve never cared enough to know.  

I know this doesn’t sound like much of a compliment, but bear with me.  You make me inarticulate.  I never know what to say to you.  Tell me what it is and I’ll say it.  And yes, you do make my heart flutter.  But just a little bit.  You know, when I see you first, or you walk in the door and I happen to look up, or the other times.

  • Do you think she’ll come back?

  • No.  I wouldn’t.

  • But what about the rest of us?

  • We’ll survive.

  • But I don’t want to just ‘survive.’  I want more.  I want it all.

  • And you think you’re ready for that?

  • I’m ready to try.

  • Then I guess you should call her.

Maybe it’s time I let the Beast out of his cage.

it never rains but it pours

Sunday, January 1, 2006

Thoughts of you; I ain’t dead yet.

  • What did you do today?

  • I waited for the bus.

  • What?

  • I waited for the bus.

  • All day?

  • Yeah.

  • The bus didn’t come?

  • It came.  And went.

  • But you didn’t get on.

  • Didn’t feel like it.

  • So you spent all day at the bus stop waiting for the bus?

  • Yeah.

  • Oh.  Alright. … How’d that go for you?

  • Eh.  Could’ve been worse.

“The wall was too high, as you can see.  No matter how he tried he could not break free.  And the worms ate into his brain.”
- Pink Floyd, “Hey You”

But it never goes anywhere.  And it never accomplishes anything.  So what’s the point?

You’re right, you can’t trust anyone.  And this was the time where we were supposed to make each other look good.  Life is a motherfucker.

At the beginning I would have cared.  I liked the bastards, they all seemed nice.  At the end, I hoped they all died.  Everyone except for me.  And that was a pretty bare exception.  But they didn’t die.  And they didn’t give up.  And they didn’t lose.  They just kept on going.  They should have died.  They should have lost.  They should have given up.  Life is bullshit.  And they are caught up in the worst of it.

Of course I am lying.  Of course I have to.  

She never though she could muster up anything

1. Never trust me.  2. Always trust me to make it out.

I want to say that it wasn’t their fault.  But it was.  That much is obvious.  The thing is, though, they needed to do it more than I needed to stop them.  And I just didn’t care enough to try.  

It wasn’t that he contemplated suicide.  He never felt inclined to take decisive action of any kind.  He wasn’t about to say the last goodbye.  Plus, he was always the riding off into the sunset sort of kid.  Suicide just didn’t fit his idiom.  Problem was he had no sunset to ride off into.  He didn’t have anywhere to go.  And the stagnation was killing him.  Slowly.  She didn’t help at all.  Not that she realized it.  He never told her anything.  Especially not how he felt.  He always subscribed to the belief that if you like a girl you ignore her.  They all ignored him back.  He blamed the Universe.  Whatever it was, though, he wanted out.  He needed to get out; break free from himself.  And suicide was out.  So what was left?

“I’ve got everything I need: Bukowski, a bottle, and a girl that doesn’t love me.”
- Isaac Aronson