An April fool flowers for love, maybe in May. An April fool cowers from love, lost in February. An April fool is always hungover, St. Patrick's Day March. An April fool is stone sober, dry as August. An April fool showers with hope, like thanks in November. An April fool hollers for sanity, frozen in January. An April fool hides in costume, October's end. An April fool is out in the open, solstice in June. An April fool seeks relief from Labor; a day off in September. An April fool on the first of July is the same fool, I.

I was the fool on the first. Got the Duffer so riled up he started shovin' me around. Stupid conservatives! Violence is their answer to everything. It was the conservatives that killed Jesus! This silly world is infatuated with bringing down the mighty and replacing them with idiocy. Look at Michael Jackson's career. So, I was loaded from smokin' the Crippler and drinking the Captain. Throw in a liter of Killian's, a half-liter of warm Asswiper Light and about 8 Miller Lite bottles…you get the idea. This escapade has led to sobriety, which will lead to drunkenness. One vicious cycle.

It is getting more difficult to fall asleep sober. The pleasure of dropping to the Craftmatic unconscious has proven addictive. I lie there staring at the dark. I counted 47 sheep last night before thrashing around under the covers and storming to the bathroom to relieve anything. Half of me wants to be belly-up at the bar arguing with the community's desperate and the other half wants to straight-jacket the motherfuckers. The bar is this: when not there, it seems something to miss; when there, it is a waste of time. I just need a new bar or new town.

One day left to spend with the Crippler. Which is alright. When one has great pot around constantly, respect for times without is forgotten. Then again, I have never needed assistance in becoming more apathetic. Not that there is anything wrong with that. Tinges of romance have swelled in my bosom twice in the last twenty-four hours. Once for a girl I pine for and once for a girl with pigtails. One will never happen and one I'll never pursue. I am again standing at the intersection of two roads, in the dark of night, in fog, under one streetlight.

There's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. My only motivation is to distract myself from what I am supposed to be doing. The horrorscope told me to pull myself together. I have finally become too much of a good thing. It is difficult to be clever when wallowing in one's own sympathy. Let the good times roll anyway, I say. Go ahead, knock me around, I don't care. How can anyone really care about much in this world anyway? It is such a stupid place. Just shut the hell up and wheel my half-barrel of Killian's over here please.

I ate so many beans yesterday I feel like I overdosed on stool softener. Chili beans for lunch. Baked beans for dinner and how about a late night snack of chips and salsa. One of those days I subliminally needed to punish myself. It's another Tuesday to survive. Glad I don't have a job. Working on Tuesdays is never good. Everyone is in the swing of things and the weekend is nowhere near. If I ever was to go postal, I'd do it on a Tuesday. So, why doesn't everyone just piss off and maybe it will be better tomorrow.

The urge to get blasted itches me to shower and shave. What if tonight is the miraculous evening where a woman shows up at the bar? Yeah, what if it rains beer? What a pointless evening. A Wednesday, the weather is shitty, partly blustery with a chance of drizzle. I will stay indoors and pretend that doing something constructive is as entertaining as losing my mind. Or maybe I'll slip out and sit on a barstool wondering what the hell planet I wormholed to at the foggy intersection. The lesser of two evils: sobriety and tedium or inebriation and lethargy.

I hackey-sacked today. A guy in the group hacked while holding nunchucks, a throwing star and a beer. In the end, the weapons became too cumbersome. We built a large fire as the burning bans were in effect starting today. One-handed, drinking P-I-G was fun until it became more laborious than amusing. From Guinness to Keystone Light, none of the beers stood a chance. It was insightful, yet mindless. I felt invigorated, yet due for a brutal hangover. Not a chick in sight. Three existentialists, well one and two guys who didn't know they were existentialists. Three stoned, drunken fools.

The ninth barely existed. I feel charred from re-entry. Three sober days begin to feel alright by day four, but only with the knowledge that the streak will end. Vague memories of yet another woman at the bar. "Bob, you promised you'd remember my name." "I have no fucking idea." "Well, that's okay, you were pretty drunk." She's 21 and blonde. That's all I remembered. It started to come back to me and luckily I was able to keep up some sense of a conversation before the slur took over. Kayla, Crystal, Jerilyn, Lisa, Stephanie, Melissa, Cheryl, Bobbie, whatshername, whatever.

I hate chit-chat. Sit around the living room and ramble and babble. Get out of my house! I want a ban on Christian holidays. All it does is open up my door to the rest of the family. Who are these people and how much blame do they really deserve? Sure the little rats are cute and I don't mind the constant bellow of "Uncle Bop-Bop??" They're good little rats. I need the drugs to cope. I need the walks in the woods. I need these people whether I want to admit it or not. I still hate the chit-chat.

Drunken stumbles for three miles at five in the morning. Part of the trek was concentration, a portion was spent on smoke breaks and urination cannot be escaped after hours and hours of continual excess. I don't exercise. I just try not to drink and drive. Why? I've had two close calls in the last month. My time is up. Just because I am trying to kill myself with booze doesn't mean I have to wreck the car. Every night out becomes some kind of run-in. Nothing can stop this madness. There is but one wrong fork in the road.

Sunny spring and the hangover has worn off on day two of sobriety. I have the energy of a sloth. It's conserved. This morning I had a head with wings. Now I have a carcass with a spent chute. Thinking has become an annoyance. I want silence. Perhaps a walk in the woods will help. Maybe a nap in the sun is in order. The evidence is all around. My brain is swelling, this I found. I'm the smartest alkie. My apologies to XTC for a terrible, borderline embarrassing parody. There is nothing in there today. Please don't bother looking.

Know your enemy. Hell is other people. All governing bodies are deserving of scorn and ridicule. There is nobody steering the ship. If there was, wouldn't we be traveling in a direction other than in a circle? The grass is always greener on the other side. But what about the weed? Is it always more crystally on the other side? That would be swell. My worst nemesis is myself. I am hell. I will continually abuse myself and others with equivocating insults. I am behind the wheel. We're doing doughnuts because I say. Let me know before you become nauseous.

Take a guess? Yep, got drunk again last night. Hell, it was another Tuesday. The options were limited. For the first ninety minutes I sat alone and watched hockey while explaining to random bar patrons how I had sent all my friends on dates so I could have a few moments of inebriated peace and quiet. People stare at the loner in the bar. I didn't feel ostracized but in some way I must have been. "Look at that guy all alone at the bar. How sad." Shit, it's better than sitting with you dorks. Next round is on you.

The day after a hangover creates a hissing emptiness in the head. Cranial shooting stars burn up in my atmosphere of disgust. Small craters settle on my brain and the dead cells are flushed through ever-lightening yellow urine. The poison is almost out. One more day and the itch for more will be back. This is the day to ponder. This is the day to wonder. This is the day to try to care because by this time tomorrow I will again be numb. Self-diagnosis is refreshing. Self-acceptance is better. But being self-aware of drunkenness is best. I am sane!

My quest to go an entire year without kissing a woman is going along smoothly. My lifetime ban on kissing dudes is in perfect order, as well. There is maybe one lass out there that can break my streak. Well, realistically, there are a few thousand. But I'm talking locally. Alright, there's more than one but only one I desire. The rest will come with inebriation and timing. A quiet Friday broods. The coming Saturday will be insane. An 80s party. Roll up the pants, get out the neon Chuck Taylors. I'll end up smoochin' some chick in leg warmers.

Goodbye Devils. See ya later, Stars. Eat shit, Predators. What a glorious hockey day. Wings and Flyers win and the Stars get the boot. Now that's my kind of Saturday. Unfortunately, I took celebration to the extreme. I'm wobblin' all over the place. I'm retarded. What the hell happened? Fifty-seven drinks later, I don't even think I watched any of the games. The 17th never existed. It never happened. I cannot be convinced otherwise. As far as I know, nothing exists. We're all stuck in a nightmare and believe me, we all want to wake up. Unfortunately, we're royally screwed.

If I held my breath my head would explode. The reason for everything is nothing. Om Mani Padme Hum. Something has to help. I need to release my mind but am stuck clinging to emptiness. The clam of my palms won't wipe off. My voice is gone in certain ranges due to excessive smoke and bullshit. I lie, for I must. It's all a roundabout way to convince others of the truth. Rings in the ears. What the hell day is it? Soberday. I remember nothing. The film is out in my photographic memory. I broke the law five times.

Silence. Dead quiet. One bird chirps in the background. Back to silence. Opportunity knocks, then runs away. "Hey, it isn't even May first!" A small pile of money floats to the ground. Forest vermin sprint to the dough and strategically place their fecal droppings all over it. The wind stirs my beard. Snore. Dead asleep. One bird chirps in the background. The sound of civilization draws ever near. Pounding hammers and the ring of cash registers. The noise itches my brain. Snort. Wide awake. Two men approach with flashy badges and attitudes. Busted, one count of trying to be free.

So, I'm arguing with a self-professed Democrat who decided finishing ninth grade was optional. Oh yeah, his entire platform was elect Kerry and all of our dreams will come true. The punk also believes the world cannot exist without money. Ten minutes into our discussion, he was calling me the idiot. Fourteen times later, I threatened to knock his head off. We then made a $2,000 bet on the outcome of this year's election. The greed and lust for power and the status-quo in the deadpan look of this kid's face left me hopeless. Junior High dropouts must know everything.

3 liters of Killians, 1 Tuaca Lemondrop, .5 regurgitated Tuaca Lemondrop of another, 1 dusty bottle of some French Uzo-like substance, A JagerBomb, 2 mystery shots, 2 pints of Killians and a Percocet. Yeah, I made agreements with many people after consumption of the above. I told Pigtails I'd pursue her for 100 days sans physicality. I wrote a note to myself to visit the florist. I even set aside the exact amount of half a dozen pink tulips. But sobriety and reality slapped me when I woke up at noon. "Leave those ladies alone!" It's for their own good.

As to your rant, everyone you see who appears to know what they want to do are basically cattle on the way to the slaughterhouse. I can't help. I'd make a better Buddhist monk with a drinking problem than anything. Just be sure you are pursuing what you want in life. What you choose to do as far as the mandatory nature of the status quo and the monkey on our shoulders that are societal norms, I have no advice for you. Some people can plug into the big machine and be happy slaves. Some of them become ground hamburger.

"Fun friend, I am still waiting for God to let me know by the ocean." "You can't trust that bastard. He's got his dirty dick beaters all over his junk and it's like trying to hang on to three dimes." "That's cold." "Whatever, this world and the societies in it are so ridiculous we have to blame someone." "It's better to blow your load in a napkin than in a girl named Dolly dating a guy with a fucking mullet." "Blow ‘em up and leave ‘em." Senseless blather. Drunken statements written in a memo book. Who said all this shit?

"I'm a screamer, so you would have heard that." And I'm not supposed to be enamored with her. Today is day 8 of 100. On a bar tab, a contract is scribbled stating that for the duration of 100 days we will get to know each other. The demands of meeting are at least twice a week with intermittent email conversations not counting but certainly welcome. The sticking point of the deal is a distinct lack of physicality. Penetration of any kind is out. At first, it was very strict. No touching of any kind. I love holding her hand.

Open your heart. Open your mind. Open your wallet and throw that rot in a fire. Open a door to freedom. Open up land masses surrounded by imaginary lines. Open twenty-four beers and enough friends to drink them before they go flat. Open lines of communication. Open your eyes to a world that could be. Open your eyes to the horror that we see around us each day. Open your world to a lover. Open spaces. Open up to the fact that time is fleeting. Open the door to a wake. Open up to mortal sadness, then close your coffin.

I tried to not look for her. I gave into temptation and searched. She was not to be found. Her absence certainly made me drink more. I passed a Monday evening hopping from bar to bar. I walked in and there was always one person who bellowed, "Bob Show!" It came out a few times. I was rambling; the crowd began to giggle. "How can this guy (pointing at myself) be this cool…" (nods of agreement) "…and yet (pause for dramatic effect) such an asshole!" Applause as I met the eye of a man I've insulted more than treated humanely.

Tomorrow will feel like summer, bugs and perspiration. I hate it already. Give me a temperature of zero and some cold ones. My bender has caused me to create methane on an industrial level. I am surrounded by a cloud of beer fart. It's revolting. Waking up has never been easy. Going to sleep even worse. Tomorrow night I will stand on a dock at the edge of Lake Sallie and enjoy an incredible night sky next to an hourglass named Laura. Money showed up. It is all I can do to get rid of it as fast as possible.

"Laura, give me your hand. Thank you for driving. That was very kind of you. Marriah, you piss like a camel, my pixie." "Justin, is Christina here?" "No." "Jeremy, I've tried to find her both yesterday and tonight." "Bob, she was just here. You just missed her." Yesterday, I projected some kind of happiness. I wasn't pissed off. There was a silent confidence in me that has spurned some level of compassion for the other humans. "Dammit, that has got to stop this very instant!" What kind of life is this? Existence is futile. Crazy with life. You can't stop.

One camel with no humps
Desert dunes, sandy bumps
Curvaceous landscapes
Dehydrated feelings

One desperate mammal
Our friend, sex camel
International escapes
Rare brothel dealings

The pursuit of failed romance
Shaky ground, weak stance
Tantalizing oasis
Mouth full of sand

Limping pulsing libido
Gusto testosterone incognito
Physicality in stasis
Dead pituitary gland

Caravans of other lovers
Blinking eyes, he discovers
Pyramids and stars
A universe to traverse

Actions in time, space
Mind wanders, another place
The deserts of Mars
Pit stop - Valles Marineris

So many deserts to travel
Futile existence, emotions unravel
Healing protected scars
An heiress hides on Polaris

I'd just like to say, "I plead innocent of all charges." So long month of April. You forgot the showers but remembered drunken hours. Personally, I am glad you are gone. I don't really enjoy you anyway. You bring the bugs and you eat the snow. You are the mud of early spring. Now it's May and we all have to watch out for bulls running through town. I'll stay in bed until noon and all night I will croon my desperate swoon - Desire for June. I am leaving this holding cell and going straight to the golf course.