Sunday, February 12, 2006

a desperate bid for freedom

Ah me.  Ah life.

“No liquor?  Da svidaniya, comrade.”
- Bender Bending Rodriguez

People worry about me.  A lot.  Or I get all kinds of people (mostly with only the slightest most tenuous relationship to me to begin with) asking me if they need to worry about me.  Because I would say if I really needed you to?  Would you worry if I told you I needed you to?  Would it matter?  Aren’t you going to worry anyway (provided that you actually care at all and aren’t just talking to make yourself feel better)?  To clear it up: no, I don’t need you to worry about me.  I need you to ask me to go out and do things with you.  I need you to get me away from myself.  I need you to give me something to do with my time other than sit at home with all that lonely booze just begging me to drink it.  That’s the fucking problem.  So instead of being a douche and asking me if you need to worry (since worrying won’t fucking solve anything) why don’t you just solve the problem by giving me something better to do?  You bastards.

The things I need to make my life satisfying are few: friends, drinking buddies, a wingman, some spending money left all the bills, and some intellectual stimulation.  It is just that I have no real way of making them happen.  I can’t magic my friends here.  Or miracle my loans away.  It’s not that much to ask.  And yet…  Yeah.  That.

It always was and it always will be: me. on my own. against the world.

I’m not angry anymore.  Just…sad.

I am in my element.  I have a glass of rum, 2 beers, and a third of a fifth of jack.  I have half a box of kung pow chicken.  And I am surrounded by the story of my life – empty bottles, boxes, trash, scribbled notes, unfinished “art work” and all the rest.  I’m just not feeling it.  I am drowning in books and I can’t find the one that tells me what I need.  I am getting to the end of my rope.  Soon I might not even have enough to hang myself.  And then I’m really fucked.  Sometimes the words just aren’t there.  And there’s nothing to be done.


“I swear on my unborn fishboy’s life: she will pay!”
- The Janitor, Scrubs

1 comment:

Kathryn said...

I always thought you were weird, and different. And yet I can relate to you. Does that mean I'm weird and different too? I can't say because I don't know enough people to compare myself to.

My only companion are 40 year old men in this city. My therapist told me I should join community groups. I told her I wanted her to be my friend.