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Sometimes, I want to write something romantic and sensual, some steamy prose that'll make a proper woman put her hand where it normally doesn't belong. Sometimes, I want my words to infuriate, start a war, stimulate the sheepish masses to upheaval and bloody rebellion. Sometimes, I want my words to soothe, assuage, the pains and wounds and losses that those I love have suffered through. Sometimes, I want my words to clarify and focus the dynamic of life, the endless cadence of cycle between sleep and the waking moment. And sometimes, I just don't want to write a fucking thing.
So yes, we're finished. I kiss you once, a long, lingering kiss, then go into the bathroom with a cold beer and a little light-headed feeling. As I turn on the hot water in the shower, I feel distant and like an asshole. I mean, all I gave you was one stupid kiss, not a word or other action, when I know you wanted more. But I guess I didn't. So I let the hot water hit my body, washing me clean of the smear of lust, while I savor my Rolling Rock and ambiguous feelings. The beer is good.
What's there to say when there's nothing to say? I guess the question answers itself. Well shit, boys and gals, I need to balance my accounts. I need to wash my favorite mug and tumbler. I need to complete the test I was given from work. I need to eat some fucking food. I need to finish the book I've been lagging on. I need to enter my stupid words. I need to get the sand out of my shoes. I need a drink. I need to buy paper towels. I need to shut the fuck up and get going.
It was perfection. The meadow was thick and wide, covered with the soft grass that soothes the toes, rich with the soothing that full oak trees and eucalyptus trees bring to the shade in the sun, cut into shape by two rivers that forge a landscape. I saw this, and imagined you and I, simple and serene, with the wind brushing our bodies like paintbrushes the sky. Fact is, I really did see the setting, and even took a photograph, but you weren't there; just the meadow, incomplete. And, just like the reality, my photograph was incomplete...it missed you. Imissyou................yes
The night is winding to its close, as I close off the remainder of Bushmills in my favorite highball glass. Funny, that I have a favorite of each type of beverage container: a favorite tumbler, a favorite coffee mug, and a favorite highball glass. This one came all the way from a Portland Oregon Dairy Queen, free with the purchase of a double cheeseburger, fries, and a sody-pop. It's a typical shitbag $.99 cent glass, only this one has pinecones on it--Ponderosa Pine cones, to be exact. I wonder if the designer knew it was Ponderosas he was making.
Look, fucker, there are few things I recognize right now, so don't bust my ass for incoherence, because here and now is right now...my blood, the only blood I feel I'll give, with the one exception of my death, falls on my keyboard. I know I won't reach you, my babe, so succeed without and despite me. I will stumble in mediocrity, until somebody realizes my obsolete and negligible experiences, when I'm already gone. My time was never will be...but I want her to be. I want you to believe that I was the man you wanted me to be.
I bend down to you, I let you down, and now I bend down to take my punishment. Yes, I know all too well that I was weak when I should have been strong, that I was aloof when I should have been compassionate, that I ignored what was going on when I should have been acting. I'm just very scared how any major changes in my life will affect the others around me, so I continue doing that which I know how to do, which I'm expected to do. And that which you want me to do the least.
I am a lover of instant, cheap pleasures. I am potential that's never realized. I am my worst enemy. I am a seducer of peoples' loyalties. I am selfish. I am an opportunist of others' weaknesses. I am frustration. I am the limits of my friends' actions. I am a decent-looking man. I am a charmer in the right situations. I am not resilient to letdowns or losses. I miss not knowing my grandfather. I doubt my willpower to achieve my goals. I am frightfully good with numbers. I hate and fear my paternal family. I am scared of myself.
Nothing ever comes easy, does it? I sit here, a hung-over mess, trying to figure out what my next move will be. I told work that I'll be out for a week...they seemed to understand, and I hope the seeming is a doing. I need to dry out, refocus, figure out where the fuck I am, and where I'm going. I feel the next change in my life will have the biggest impact of them all. I am scared and I am weak. I just hope everyone else understands that, and can at least appreciate it. Never was too strong...
Alright, fuckers, what makes a man strong? Is it the ability to have the freedom to do anything and everything, and to live through and conquer those things without a loss of self? Is it the ability to act out the right thing in each situation? Is it the ability to say yes to need and no to want? Is it the ability to do not, NOT what is right in each situation, and be comfortable with that decision? I don't know the answer to this question, but I sure as fuck wish I did, because I need to know.
You know, I don't think I ever properly said goodbye. I never said that we had some good times, that we had some bad times, and I'll treasure the good times, and never forget the bad times. I never told you that I'll never look for you again, or that I'll spend not another instant contemplating any future between us. I should have, just so you know how resolute and complete my decision on our separation was. Because you were the past, not the present or future, so in the past you will remain, only. And that is the end.
It was unreal. I walked through gilded caverns of flesh and bones, I died in the pouring rain alone with a lonely girl in the mud, I conquered armies and the world, and I even walked into a lush meadow where the girl of dreams waited, laughing. I lived in a hut a million miles in the air, I lost my teeth to decay and old age, I fucked in a library and I was shot dead as a slow gunslinger. I have seen and done it all, all within the instant of a time and space with no limit.
I am deathly afraid right now at what my last bout with my personal demons has cost me at work. I know they gave me this time off to get my shit worked out, but I fear that in the backs of their minds they're questioning my stability and ability; and, rightly they should. So, when I go in today, I'll prepare myself for demotion, I will prepare myself for even getting fired, prepare myself for what I've prepared myself for many times, and that is the punishment of weakness. But like the times before, this had to be done.
My thoughts are pathetically disjointed right now. I have snippets of the song "Divine Hammer" plugging along in my head, I'm thinking of what I need to accomplish at work tomorrow, I need to figure out Plan B if Plan A doesn't pan out, I need to figure out BOTH plans all the way through, I need to find a solution for what to do in the few ambiguous months before those Plans take place, and I'm thinking about making picturesque love on a soft, flannel blanket, in the cool shade, on a quiet lake, on a warm summer day.
There is a paradigm for all things, a model of perfection of its function and how it performs. A bicycle, a car, a computer, all things, even people, have an aura of what they're supposed to do and how they do it. Potential...that's it. Now when a car or bike doesn't reach its potential, it's discarded or sold. People are much more complex, however, their roles much more varied than the average slab of steel, so if they don't reach, at least moderately, their potential, they can't just be bought or sold. They, the vast majority of the time, self-destruct.
I, because of my lack of filling my potential, self-destruct. That's why I get drunk and chase away those I love, why I dream so much instead of actualizing, why, even when I'm holding strong to my values, there's a decay in my eyes and personality. And I am ashamed, ashamed of the fact that in these guts is the capacity to love a good woman well, produce work that is original and pragmatic, yet I languish in mediocrity. And that mediocrity isn't enough to pay the price for good love and success. And not enough to kill my self-destruction.
Old photographs, of people and times long forgotten, litter my photo album. Occasionally, I'll reminisce, try to remember the crawfish parties and the barbeques, the keggers and all-niters. Sometimes, I'll crack a smile at the visions of the litany of mildly entertaining, yet ultimately expendable people I've known and shared experiences with. But more often than not, I'll close the book in a haste, because when I look into all those eyes, all those eyes of all those people, including myself, I see the progression of the decay of innocence and wonder. And that is a bad, sad fucking thing.
Today has been much like the others that I have had this week: sleep, shower, work, drive, chores and the odd hobby task. Consequently, I've nothing much to say today that hasn't already been said before, so I'll fill my fine little entry with a super-duper passage from the book I've been lagging on these past few weeks... "Fresh beauty opens one's eyes wherever it is really seen, but the very abundance and completeness of the common beauty that besets our steps prevents its being absorbed and appreciated." Now put THAT sumbitch in your pipe and smoke it tonight, baby.
My boys, God bless 'em, always want to go to the nudie bar when I come around. Unfortunately, I don't. Now it's not because I don't like full, round tits, or tight asses, or luscious legs that reach the sky, because I do. It's because the sexuality at the strip club isn't real-the tits may be, the ass may be, and the legs may be, but the desire isn't. I could have virtually the exact same experience, in fact a more intense experience, at home alone, with a magazine, my dick, and my hard-earned dough. And that is good enough.
Silence...silence, silence, silence, on a dark, cold, Saturday night. I have tomorrow off-I plan on going far away for a good part of the day, to do that which I do best. But first, I have to make it through this night complete and complacent. My eyes are heavy, my self-doubt is present, as usual, and my mind is still stuck on work, still digesting the events of the day. It's stuck on the fact that I really do care about my employees, and I really want to do the best for them, but sometimes my best isn't good enough.
I walk into the room. I look everybody in the eyes, my own eyes full of contempt, and they know it-they feel it. When I'm done sneering at them, I lounge over to the highest piece of furniture in the room, in this case a desk, and take my seat. I say nothing-silence hurts worse than any kind of physical pain or punishment, and these motherfuckers deserve all that plus more. Still I sit, as if they don't exist, as if I'm alone on an enchanted daydream. But the time comes for the work to be done........................................................................................."You are all guilty."
It was shitty day at work today, that I will say. My time and energy were wasted by stupidity, inefficiency, and laziness, both on others' parts and my own, and that shit fucking pisses me off. As a result, my work and responsibilities suffered accordingly, and I left my job unfinished and messy. Then, a good three hours devoted to maddening chores expedited by rude assholes, and my mood only got worse. Till, that is, I came home to a message, one sweet, beautiful message on my answering machine, that washed my seething frustration away, and made everything good again.
Goddamnit, I hate my ears, but I think I hate my nose more. I swear, come warm or hot weather, the fucking thing leaks like sieve, drains like a hose, explodes like a fire hydrant. So, all day, no matter where I'm at or what I'm doing, I'm sucking snot up through my schnozz every 30 seconds with a sickening sound, and in between those seconds, I've got any available material shoved up my nostrils to keep my lovely mucus from decorating my upper lip. What a great impression, what a lovely sight-I feel like cutting this part off, too.
Man o man, it's rare when I get sick, like the flu or a cold, but when I do, I think the microbes make up for all the time that I've been bad-germ free. Right now my fever is blazing hot, my ears (as usual) hurt like hell, my lungs are full of lovely phlegm, my throat is sore, and my nose is running like a river after a hard rain. And, damnit, shit like this always takes away my fucking time, so I get pissed when I get sick. I'm sick. I'm pissed. And I need sleep and juice.
Yeah, you can talk shit all you like, but it's not my fucking fault that you didn't get what you didn't deserve. And yeah, you can try to gloss things over with a careless laugh and a plastic smile, but that still doesn't hide your selfish goals and petty desires. Sure, you can go fuck that nowhere-going dildo, but I promise you that I will not be fucked with. And you, you can think whatever you like, but reality will remain unchanged and unaffected by your woeful, psuedo-righteous ideals. Get your fucking heads out of the ground-and that includes myself.
I'm not a light person, I'm not a light person by a long shot. I have three lights in my room: the obnoxious full-room light, which I shun using; my desk lamp, which I only use when paying my bills; and my small nightstand lamp, which just gives enough glow for me to read a book and not trip over shit while walking through my room. It's that light that I always use. The living room, on the flip side, has two bright fucking lights that could blind a blind man, the same lights my roommate consistently, annoyingly, leaves on.
Sorry baby, I know I should have spent the day with you, but I instead wasted it with Rouseburger playing Grand Theft Auto 3 for seven inglorious hours. Normally, I find video games a waste of time, a cheap imitation of the intensity action in reality has. But when I started running over people with my cop car, and blowing up vans and taxis, and unloading clip after clip of tension-freeing ammunition, I was hooked. For six hours, at least, and then I got bored, not by just the game's repetition, but by my latent ass languishing on the couch.
This day has fucking sucked ass. The residual of my sickness, it seems, has turned into its own sickness. Thus, I passed my day on the couch, phlegm coming from my lungs every five minutes, my head sweating and pounding, my stomach aching consistently every three minutes, and, of course, my ears twisting and distorting all soundwaves. I gave this day, this beautiful, inviting day, to my little cold, but the fucker will get no more time from me... I don't give a shit if I puke blood tomorrow, I refuse to be stuck in this fucking house any longer.
You know, there was one time when I thought I knew you really well, knew you inside and out. However, as I now look back on it, my knowledge was just superficial; I never took the time to share your solitude. I know what I've missed, I know I missed the deeper, expansive you, and now I race to try and get that experience back, but you play hard to get. Yeah, you play hard to get, but I'm much harder to stop now than back when, and since I'm in the position for reciprocating, the time has finally come.
Christ, if I ever write shit like April 6's again, I need to be shot. It is fucking aimless, sappy bullshit like that that has caused me to stop writing when I'm stumbling drunk. I also need to stop being such a whiner--there's people out there who have to deal with medical horrors like cystic fibrosis and cancer, and I pine and moan about my little fever and tummy ache. I need to stop being such a pussy and just do what I gotta do, without allowing imaginary crutches and handicaps to hinder my way. And that is it.
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