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.