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Right now, I just don't give a fuck-quarter and hang me, and I won't mind a fucking bit. Invariably, though, I always seem to be the one doing the cutting-at this point, I'd prefer someone else to bleed my soul other than myself. I mean, c'mon now, I've taken every little and big pain and internalized them into my own soul-I need someone else to feel the pain. Basically, someone else has to take the brunt of this load of bad mistakes and blown opportunities. Besides, when my moral vision is clear, the fucking chumps were always the guiltier anyways.
I feel like I'm just running in place again, never moving beyond or forward, but just glued to my position in life. The same drunken, lonely nights, the same overwhelming frustration, the same experiences and actions, just repeated again for the sake of filling time... My mind is cluttered with visions of happy barbeques in the backyard with a fine lady and the boys, chuggin' brews and chowin' hot dogs in the summer's warm sun. Unfortunately, that vision never leaves the confines of my unfocused brain, and I find myself left alone, contemplating the unpredictable courses that life has taken.
I know I'm falling into the same black hole that I fell into a year ago. And yet, even though I am now conscious of my own consciousness, I still do as my emotions dictate. It's just the same shit, but in a different location. The same fucking dislocation, the same fucking distant look, that's me, and what's scary is that I see myself in this way. What's even scarier is that I know others see me in this way too-and I realize it. And I guess I'm too much of a fucking pussy to do something about it. Alright....
I want to make the best decisions in life, to do the best I can for everyone involved in a situation, but not at the price of giving up my integrity and honor for the sake of smoothing things over. That, unfortunately, that trait of sacrificing one's sense of right merely to get out of an uncomfortable situation, is a characteristic that my father has always possessed. His blood does run through me, but so does my grandmother's and grandfather's, and their unbending will actualizes an odd dichotomy with the timidity of my paternal genes. We'll see which will win.
Somehow, I just can't get that stable fucking home life that has always eluded me. Red blood and blue bruises, then isolation and ostracism, and now vindictiveness and three-year-old, tug-of-war games. It drives me fucking insane, because waking up in the morning to the antagonism and avoidance colors the whole day, no matter how much I try to put it out of my mind. Of course, I've made it through before, and I'll make it through again, but after twenty years, it's begun to grow old. So, Sunday, once again I'll try to stabilize this omnipresent chaos in my life.
Right now, I am out of control. My disappointment, both with myself and others, rips apart my fragile soul like a tornado of broken glass. I feel as if life is a great big house, yet I only look into it from a dirty, stained window, alone outside with my chaotic emotions. So, I get fucked-up to distance myself from that window, to make it seem as if it's not even there at all. Or, a simple, polite request that I make invariably ends up being a raged, incoherent diatribe. I need my control back, I need my self-discipline back.
What a fucking day. Wake up at eight in the morning, get silent treatment from the roommate, watch some football, then go to work for eleven hours. And I hate this, I fucking hate coming home and having to deal with this groundless animosity-I spent the last twenty years of my life dealing with it, and now I'm right back to the same fucking bullshit. Am I really that much of an asshole that she needs to cut off all contact with me? And then spite me more by cutting off the long distance? Or is her perception the problem?
7:45...wake up, hit the fucking snooze button. 8:00...hear my roommate loudly dragging the trash to the street-I go back to sleep. 9:00...Moms calls-I don't answer. 11:00...Moms calls again, I still don't answer, and I'm still in bed. 11:30...Get up, jerk-off, and shower. 1:30...I get into town, grab a DAMN good burrito-the waitress is nice, so I tip her well. 2:30...I get to the lake, throw out a line, and bag about 12 fish. 7:00...I get home, watch football and wrestling. 9:00...Roommate's home, silent treatment-I ignore her. 11:15...Play on the computer for an hour. Now...getting drunk and not giving a fuck.
I looked up at the stars tonight while walking home. Saw the Pleiades, part of Draco, maybe a chunk of Aquila (not completely sure, the trees obscured my view). As flighty as it may be, I love to crane my neck upwards on a dark, solemn night and scan those distant points of light. I even bought a few star maps, and put names to the brilliance this past summer. In a way, it makes lonely nights intimate, because up above, never flinching, are those stars, those exact same pots of gases viewed by poor and great alike throughout history.
There's just something not right in the picture they paint. Something is just...missing. Now, honestly, I really don't care about anyone except those who are in my life now, or those who have contributed to my life. So, I merely sympathize, but no empathy. Nonetheless, I take a mild interest in affairs...and there's something missing. Is this clown responsible? Maybe...but, despite what we admit, a book's cover says tons about its contents, and his cover is as bland as the printer paper in my printer. It's too simple for something so complex, and though a paradox, something's MISSING...something's not in-line...
Those few women who came into my life and really touched me emotionally come into my thoughts often. Smart, funny, ambitious and beautiful, they both set my emotions on fire, yet also made me feel inferior. I'd have this paradigm of the kind of man they would deserve, and unfortunately, I was never one of the models. So, with these four, I never took it too far, never went in depth, and always kept my distance. And basically, I was too scared that I just wouldn't have the character or willpower necessary to make them proud to be in love.
The keyboard spins before my drunken hands, yet my rage remains. So many fucking stupid assholes, so many stupid whores who never got what they deserved. They NEED what they deserve, because no one lese will have the balls and do it. No one else in this entire group and situation will have the capacity to say, "NO-you're a fucking asshole, and you won't get away with it." And no one has the ability to punish those who deserve it. And it ain't no god, but just those who understand the lex talionis, that what one does to you, you do to them.
Sometimes, you just need to get smacked in the face by rock bottom in order to be forced to look up again, and see things in perspective. Once you get to that point, it's a freeing feeling, but it comes with a heavy cost. It comes with the cost of seven wasted days devoted to the consumption of a forty ounce of cheap-shit malt liquor, followed by the odd bottle of merlot. The cost of wasted mornings spent grimacing from the throbbing headache and ominous abdominal pain. But, it's a necessary, for in order to create, something must be destroyed.
These last few days, I've had certain moments where I felt I understood all at that single point of space and time. Shit, for all I know, maybe I'm just having mini strokes induced by too many drunken nights, but my mind was just clear. It's been kinda surreal, almost an epiphany of sorts. Like people coming up to me at work, looking to me to solve their problems, and a few times, I just knew exactly what it was they needed. Everything was just so clear. Simple, easy. And I just understood, but it's a foreign feeling to me.
My thoughts run the gamut tonight, from sweet love with rosy-red cheeks and snow-white skin, to vengeance and punishment doled out ruthlessly to those fuckers who deserve it. They combine in a whirlwind of fleeting images and ideas that swirl within my tired mind tonight. They all yearn for actualization, but my conscience only allows some to cross the line, only allows those that are carefully thought out and considered to cross the threshold into reality. Of course, when I'm drunk, the conscience takes a nap and all hell breaks loose in a frenzy of fight, fuck, conquer and dominate.
Three nights in Missoula, I spent. I arrived sometime in the late afternoon, found a cheap-shit motel, then a liquor store. The air had that calm cool of autumn, but I was too far gone to give a shit, so I picked up two liters of rot-gut gin and some take-out chinese and went back to my spacious abode. With the exception of runs to the liquor store and fast-food joint, I stayed in that room for the whole three days. I drank. Watched TV. Drank. And drank, and tried to drink away the shame that my life had become.
I think there's a beauty in simplicity, whether it be of an inanimate object or a living, breathing human being. For instance, I've never been a club guy, was never one to get a stiffy looking at all these chicks made up to look like someone else. I always found the sinuous movements of the quiet checker girl ten times more erotic and sexy than big fake tits and hair teased to Mars. There's just that naturalness, that core essence that means so much more in women who unconsciously flow with time, whose simple movements alone are more than enough.
Coming back to this place after fifteen years is like coming back to a cemetery of the self. My jaded innocence lies here, like an invisible tombstone. Flashbacks of those long-gone days have plagued my mind today. Memories of the apprehension I always felt on opening my home's door when I got home from school, my losing struggle in the social status game, and knowing my father was just a stranger intruding upon my life. And, conversely, the pure happiness I felt in this place of mountains and rivers and trees for a day and a half, fifteen years ago.
Not much to say today, except that I'm tired and long for my couch. Yeah , I know the couch isn't a typically ideal bedding place, but I've always felt more at ease with something on my side than nothing at all. Even in my apartment in Portland, where I had the whole area to myself, including a comfy twin, I invariably ended up passing out on the couch. If I rationalized it, I might think that I need some sort of security on one side of my sleeping apparatus, but fuck it-I just like sleeping on the goddamn couch.
Sometimes, I need a little help to get through the night. I have internalized all my rage and hatred and frustration instead of actualizing it on those who deserve it. But, oddly, I don't like hurting people, and I know that punishing those would just continue the bond of interacting with them. So, I have said goodbye, and let them go on their own way. That way, at least, the bridge is burned, and I'll never have to walk over it again. But my emotions remain-and sometimes, it gets a little rough to face them-thus, this forty-ouncer in my hand.
This fucking weather is pissing me off. This sunny shit, is supposed to stay in summer, not intrude it's ugly, unwelcome glare on autumn. I need some rain, some clouds and snow, some physical manifestation of change and progress. Instead, I'm stuck with this lingering hot and clear weather, selfishly taking more dates than it's due. I want that shitty weather, as its essence of action will hopefully leach into my weak soul, and will give me an outside help to do what I have to do to make things right. And christ, do they need to be made right.
It was a long, rough day today, but I'd take that over a short, easy one. A lot accomplished, unfortunately expensive, but necessary to move things in that forward direction. And that is what I need-progression. To move on, to tell the world and all the chumps to fuck themselves, and to take that which is deservedly mine. To let that ambition out of its cage, and force myself to experience and excel and make those proud who took a chance on me. And though they may be few, their contributions have been huge, and I owe it to them.
I had better write quick right now, or my face is going to fall flat on this old keyboard. I'm beat from work, but I'm happy to do a decent job for a decent company...the air has finally taken that chilly character, and my temperament rises in inverse proportion to the dropping mercury...tomorrow, a day off. Time to exit the door of proper society, and go my own uncharted way, just staring at nothing and everything, and basking in every second of my own selfish time. And I don't feel the least guilty at all-right now, morally, I'm on parole.
Man o man, what a nice, smooth, easy day today. I finally got in contact with a couple of formerly really close friends, and to hear their voices was, really, just an absolute joy. People aren't just themselves, just isolated islands in a stream of inorganic debris, but are part of others' lives, and as our experiences and relationships make up our histories, they also define us. And so, talking to these three people today made me remember another part of myself, a part that not only did I like, but respected as well. I won't lose contact again, ever.
I really want to learn how to barbeque well. Now, I don't mean like throwing a couple patties on a fucking Hitachi while chugging foeties of Olde English, however enjoyable as that is, but good shit, like pork ribs spiced up with my own homemade sauce and marinated in my own, special way. To have a top-of-the-line griller, with igniter, trick burners, side burner, porcelain grates, and a cherry powder-coated finish with a tool rack. To have a million recipes for every dead quadruped, and to have the smell emanating from my porch to be the envy of the neighborhood.
Coffee, a few doughnuts, and the dark blue sky penetrated be ever-lightening hues of red are the things I wake up to this morning. Kinda bums me out, alone in this tranquility, that I don't wake up this early every day. It almost feels as if I have a step ahead of everybody else, as if the quiet moments of dawn have given me a focus and determination that all them damn late-risers never get. Still, I wish I hat a big ole barbeque, a kooky chef's hat, various dead animals, and fancy-schmancy spatula to make the morning even better.
Man o man, not much to say tonight. My foggy mind needs a rest from all the drunken euphoria of these last two days, and I'm kinda beat. All I want to do is lay on my couch, watch some brainless TV, and just dose off into the nightmares of my unconscious. A killer, a saint, a recluse, a ladies' man, I can be all of those in my nightmares. I walk through a million different worlds and perceptions, limited in their experience only by times inability to allow all different things to be constructed in new and meaningless forms.
I try to tell you, no, I won't do it, but sometimes I just can't resist the urging in your voice. Sometimes I can't not immerse myself in the fleeting gratification that cheap pleasure brings. Sometimes I lose all sight of that which I have built for the sake of an unfeeling physical touch, or false sense of glory. Then, always, I hate you for luring me into this debasing lifestyle, but I hate myself more for allowing it to happen. And that hate remains, and as destructive as it may be, there's a purity and beauty in its rawness.
My computer is flipping out, and as I have become fairly dependent upon it, and as this 100words thing has been a constructive routine, I'm bumming that it's doing this weird shit. Unfortunately, I may have been the cause-FUCK! AND NOW THIS FUCKING PEN'S HAVING TROUBLE FUCKING WRITING! Anyways, earlier, becuase it's been slower getting online, I decided to try that defragmenter thingie, as I heard that help organize the computer and make it faster. WELL-25 seconds into that, and I stopped it-figured I'd better know more about what exactly I was doing before I did it.
Thankfully, as I type, my Micro Word seems ok…let’s hope it’ll stay that way. Obviously, I hope it does, because having something malfunction that you don’t understand is a frustration that kills. First, it wracks your mind, because not understanding how something functions makes you dependent on its working properly-in short, you’re at the mercy of the machine. Secondly, it puts you at a disadvantage of those who DO know your problem, and are thus, through your own ignorance, able to take all that they want regardless of its necessity. Life is merely that eternal game of give and take.
Coffee, I tell you, is the lifeblood of the morning. Now, I don’t mean that pussy-ass shit you get at Starbucks, but good, simple, strong, gut-wrenching black sludge that kicks your woozy ass into gear at six in the morning. It’s the comforting warmness that soothes the cold toes and frosty nose at dawn. Its scent is the smell of progress, this amazing liquid stimulating the day with its mild amphetamine-type effects. And its opening of the day, its being as the first ritual setting up all consequent actions, is a ceremony that not only do I need, but want.
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