REPORT A PROBLEM
I had a bad dream last night about my father. In it he was dying, expected to go at any second, and I apparently was to receive a lump of cash he had put away for me. I felt evil about it, because I didn't want to see him, and I wanted that money. A fucked-up dream, sure, but I believe that dreams come about to prepare you for a future event. If the future event of that dream comes, I won't take the money and I won't go see him--I made sure our paths will never cross again.
You're just a fuck, and I'm the cold-blooded son of a bitch who made you what you are. Sure, you may be someone's daughter, someone's friend, someone's mother, but to me you're just a fuck. I should feel bad about this, I should feel a sense of remorse, but why the fuck would I? What could you have offered me more than a few moments of mediocre physical pleasure? Could you have expanded my horizon of perception on experiences we have? Could you have opened my eyes to a new and abstract idea? No, you're simply just a fuck, baby.
I like birds. Now, I don't mean like cockatiels and parrots, and other obnoxiously gaudy birds from fucking Panama. No, no, I like the kind of birds that you see every day on your way to work, coming out of the grocery store, or taking a walk around a lake. Today, I saw a common merganser, a gadwall, a double-crested cormorant, and a red-tailed hawk. I enjoyed watching them, and I enjoyed the fact that I knew who they were. I guess that's the source of my enjoyment--that I feel like I'm close, intimate with them at lonely times.
Waiting waiting waiting, god damnit, I hate fucking waiting. Yeah, I know all good things come to those who wait, but to me it's lost time, and for anyone whose been bored enough to read my shit, then they know that lost time is constantly on the forefront of my thoughts (not to mention themes in my little 100 words). I want action here and now, I want actualization, progress, movement, because there IS no other time than now, and I want the most out of it. So, with that said, it's time for me to take out the trash.
I think that I am blessed with unusually strong bones. Each day, somehow, someway, I find a way to trip, fall, run into inanimate objects, crush my hands, and bang my ankles, yet I still have not had a single broken bone. This is a good thing, especially since I have been getting progressively clumsier. Today, I dropped my keys, I dropped my paperwork, I dropped my food, I dropped a faucet washer, quite frankly, I dropped a lot of shit. This, conversely, ISN'T a good thing. So, just like so many other things in life, they balance themselves out.
I'm going to my buddy's tonight for a little vacation. When I get there, I want us all to go out and get potato skins, with cheese, bacon bits, and ranch dressing dripping off them in greasy, lovely globs. I want to have some beers, I want to have some laughs, and I am apprehensively hoping she just shows up. I know she is still a friend with my buddy's fiancé, and I know that she had always wanted to hook us up. We could've before, since the emotion was right...unfortunately, the words were always wrong. Maybe--guess we'll see.
There are times when I wish this world was just mountains and forests, and that I was the only man alive. Each day would be a test of ability, each day would create a new challenge for me to overcome and survive. I would roam this world, learning to use that which I am given, learning to understand the subtle and intimate secrets the surroundings give regarding what lies ahead, and learning to deal with what lies ahead efficiently and effectively. I'd make love to the stars, I'd conquer the mountains and the rivers, and I'd be alone and alive.
I had another bad dream about my father last night. In it, I was still in high school, and he wanted to put me away in an insane asylum. First, he had my truck impounded because there were a few stolen parts on it. Then, he joined forces with my sister in an effort to hunt me down and put me in a white room with no windows. I simmered in this dream, suffocated by my lack of control over what these two lovely people were doing--so, instead of doing anything, I self-destructed. I just walked off and died.
I'm a big cloud god, and I ride my clouds like a cowboy his horses. I've got a big beer belly, a big dick, and a big attitude that don't take no shit. I race across the sky, pissing my piss as falling rain on the masses of ants, the organic trash that stains the hard ground. I fuck the world with my big dick, smothering her brown skin with my jizz of snow. I roam the atmosphere, complete and free, not knowing, not caring, and just enjoying the wind rushing through my long hair. Yes, I'm the Cloud God.
I have a picture of my maternal grandmother and grandfather on the wall above my couch. It's a beautiful picture, as I shelled out two hundred bucks to have it professionally framed. I spent that money for two main reasons: one, because they were good people, and deserve to be honored as such, and two, because their image is a constant reminder that I must make their name proud, that I must live up to both their expectations and my potential. But, with my self-awareness, that job is still not getting done, and I wander through my days in mediocrity.
Sorry to my boys, but I do say that my big-time boozing days of hundred dollar tabs, wild nights of drunken fumbling, and puking on the floor have come to a close. The reasons are simple: first, I've got something more worthwhile to do with my money; second, it is an impediment to my emotional and physical progress; and third, it is just a repeat of a litany of past experiences. I'm tired of the same old shit--it's time for something new. It is time for me to go beyond the socially acceptable routine of trashed, forgotten Saturday nights.
Ever notice how hard and annoying a chore it is to fill the ice cube trays back up? I mean, when you really think about it, the actual act of filling water into the indentations and placing them in the fridge when they're full takes maybe 30 seconds and a watt of energy at the most. So why is it so easy to blanch at this pathetically easy task? Is it the water invariably spilling on the countertop and the hands? Is it just an inherent property in man's neurochemistry to avoid the trays? Either way, it still just sucks.
If there was one body part I could get rid of, it would be my ears. Not my big-ass nose hairs. Not my rough-skinned heels. Not even my weighty, troublesome sack. No, it would be my ears, my goddamn airbrakes that sit mid-level on my noggin. I get more fucking ear infections than pimples, colds, or sunburns. My ears have no equilibrium; one can be turned up to a million decibels, while the other couldn't hear a nuclear explosion. They can't hear half the shit that people say in 'em. And damnit, I can't read anybody's lips. I hate them.
Okay, so I have another date tomorrow. This one, THIS one, is with a chick who is a cousin of a friend of a friend. I heard she was pretty cool, and pretty cute, so what the hell?--I called her up and we chatted for about an hour-and-a-half. So far, so good. Of course, I've yet to see her, so I don't know (but hope, as our conversation went well) if there is any physical attraction. If so, I hope I can get this one to the third date and, oddly, without going to bed with her. We'll see...
My hands are on your ass, your legs, your face, breasts and hair. Sure I'll dance; all I need is five more beers. And yes, I am fine to go home, because I like your father, and I don't want this to happen on the first night again. Too many times, and though I wouldn't mind throwing you down onto the bed and fucking the night away, I won't. Too many times shit starts out this way, and it just burns itself out, until I start over again three weeks from now, with someone new, distant, desperate, sexy, and unknown.
It finally snowed again today. Unfortunately, I spent the day inside recuperating from the nasty hangover left from last night. While I have made the personal pact to discontinue the boozing excesses with the boys, I forgot to make it complete by throwing in the excesses with the women. Excess happened with the women last night, and I guess booze was just a cheap cover up for my insecurity. Miraculously, I made it back up the mountain at three without killing myself or someone else. Lucky, but unlucky in that I let today's beautiful chill go by without my intrusion.
I've got nothing to say that hasn't already been said before, I've got nothing to do that hasn't already been done before. I walk through this life, acting out the status quo actions of the typical twenty-year-old guy: drunken, meaningless nights at the bar, whirlwind, meaningless fucks for my headboard tally, and dead-end, useless jobs. And I walk through, I continue to walk through, as expectations dictate, and as the majority does, I do. There's nothing wrong with this per se; it's been done before to success, and it functions successfully now, too. But something feels wrong. There's something more.
I want you, I want you so bad that it breaks my heart, but since you’re so far away, I have to find substitutes, and they take your place, incomplete and frayed around the edges. But they may have to do, because I’m losing hope that I’ll be able to reach you and see you again, and while they aren’t you, they are at least something, and I need a something in my life. Still, this dissipating hope is there, and I think of you when I’m alone, when I need strength I don’t possess, and you get me there.
My ears are fucking acting up again, and that always puts me in a bad mood, much like I’m in now. Today I don’t go into work until four, and my body is heavily dependent on regular cycles to function at its best. My actions of the last few days have been lackluster and average. Bad mood, oh yeah, unfortunately so. The only thing that pulls me out of these bad moods is action, a productive move to get the things done that need to be done. I just hate having to pull myself up by the bootstraps so often.
Just a cool, calm summer night, with the stars shining and the moon peeking over the ridge, with you right beside me, warm and beautiful and serene. The lights from the docks across the way reflect off the water, our bare feet dangle in the water, and the red wine puts a surreal haze over all that is seen and heard. Moments like this seem perfect, like some cheesy painting taken and translated into reality by time and effort. I wish moments like this could happen over and over again, or at least remain static and never change. I wish…
I barely know what the fuck I’m doing anymore. Sure, I’ve been heading on the right track, but the course has been jagged, making turns into places that I’ve already been before. I’ve DONE all this shit before, I’ve SEEN it all before, yet it still lies on the path, like a roadblock to my future. The past—unlike the storybook ideal that only now counts, the reality is that you can never escape your past, for it colors all other experiences after, it shapes the way we perceive and are perceived. Mine will always chase me until I die.
Let there be no doubt, I hate you to the marrow of my bone, to the very center of my soul. You are selfish, capricious, under-appreciating, and manipulative. You make me sick, you disgust me, make me want to vomit, the very thought of you pisses me off and gives me a headache. But what is even more sickening is the fact that I will be performing an act for you in three months, for your benefit, all because I care about how our significant other feels about it. And I HATE that you will be benefited by my actions.
The rain comes down in soft sheets upon my roof tonight, as I prepare to enter the evening drunk and alone. Yeah, I know I said no more drunken lonely nights, but when they’ve become woven into the fabric of your life, what the fuck can you do? So, I sit here with my Rolling Rock, I sit here and muse on how the last girl only lasted one date. Maybe when I told her I’da fucked her on her porch if her father wasn’t home did it. Maybe it was the booze, maybe the dancing, maybe the food…maybe me.
Occasionally, I need to purge myself of all that I’ve done and been in a wave of solitude and drunkenness and self-debasement. I did a lot of purging these last three days, destroying my cares and worries under a haze of empty beer bottles and bad songs written over five years ago. It puts things into perspective, focus, it brings me back down to earth and reinforces that I am nothing, just another insect worthlessly crawling on the world, unnoticed by the camouflage of the billions of humanity. I am blank page now, just waiting to be written, starting tomorrow.
Alright, a little more purging. I don’t have to be into work until ten tomorrow, so why the fuck not? I feel like shit, look like shit, and haven’t been doing shit, so I might as well consummate this night to drunken shit. I just wish I woulda had a little more foresight as to what this evening would become, as I am getting low on beer and booze. Hm, a fifth of vodka and Bushmills, some cranberry juice, orange juice, sweet-n-sour, and a few bottles of Rolling Rock. I just hope it’s enough for this dark night. I hope…
I’m frustrated. I am frustrated that I didn’t have enough money to cover all my bills this pay period. I am frustrated that I didn’t get the promotion I worked so hard to get. I am frustrated that the last one lasted a whopping one date. I am frustrated that others hold me to higher standards than themselves. I am frustrated that those I have come through for so many times did not come through for me. I am frustrated that I am my piece-of-shit sister’s brother. I am frustrated that my ISP takes so fucking long. I’m fucking frustrated.
I often delude myself of that which is by dreaming of that which could be. I know why—it’s a diversion from the reality that the experiences of my life are just mediocre, status quo, just the same shit everyone else has done or will do. But ya see, I’m plagued by the fact that I know there is so much more out there, of deeper feeling and meaning, experience, yet I find myself entrenched in the regular, daily cycles of toil and social jockeying. So, to soothe my desire, I dream, I dream of that which could never be.
Some things I like. 1. Dickies: they’re inexpensive, tough, a good fit, and look cool. 2. My Swiss Army Knife, which can, and has done, everything. 3. Blue-tip matches for igniting on anything. 4. The rain, for making everything smell fresh and new. 5. My burly parka, for making sure that rain doesn't make my skin smell fresh and new. 6. Mint'n'chip ice cream (a rather new weakness). 7. Edith Hamilton's Mythology. 8. My favorite tumbler from my old 'tard employee Eric. 9. My red fiberglass shovel, my personal symbol of masculinity. 10. Indiana Jones flicks, for just pure entertainment.
I know it may be cold, heartless, but I sometimes feel that I let my friends hold me back from becoming something more. Now don't get me wrong--they're great guys and gals, and I wouldn't have what I do have without them, yet there are times when the fucking sports talk and beer guzzling gets a little old. When this happens, when I get bored with the latest score and fiftieth beer story, I feel alone while surrounded by people. I get anxious, snappy, in a mood to chase, because there is so much in this world to chase.
God damnit, if only I could win the fucking lotto. First, the credit cards would be paid, followed by school, then by my mother's mortgage. I'd buy two boats: one, a big cruiser with a barbeque and a kegerator; two, a simple, flat-hulled john boat, one that I could take stealthily deep into the Everglades, so deep that no one from anywhere could find me. I'd buy a tough, black and chrome Harley, a cabin in Idaho's Bitterroot Mountains, and a shitload of medium-risk mutual funds. Then, I'd buy some time, and just enjoy the simple pleasures of rich living.
I used to hate organized religions. I thought that all the Christians and Jews and Wiccans were all simple-minded chumps too weak to form their own perceptions of reality, and their places in it. However, maybe because of age and experience, I've come to appreciate the social bonds and behavioral paradigms that these old fairly tales created and now maintain. We are, no matter how much we try to deny it, social animals, and part of existence is being a part of, and contributing to, a group. So, despite the fallacy of the tale, I can no longer condemn it.
The Tip Jar