Sex…Then Suicide

Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?

I just had the most amazing sex of my life.

How amazing?

The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.

My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.

Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.

I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.

Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.

Alright…so me being fucked in the head.

Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.

Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.

Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.

How ugly.

She thinks it’s pretty, though.

“For real, B?” she just said.

Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.

After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.

“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.

She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.

“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.

As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.

That’s how fucked in the head I am.

 

 

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Johnny’s Recurring Nightmares (Pt. 1)

I was friends with Johnny for three or so years before I found out how fucked in the head he was. And I know, fucked in the head sounds a bit harsh, but that’s his verbiage, not mine.


“I haven’t slept in two days,” Johnny said before inhaling a line of absurdly good coke. The type of shit that flooded highbrow clubs in the late seventies. The type of shit that shouldn’t be called shit, because the slang term shit came about when dealers started to cut their coke with laxatives…but not this coke. This coke was so pure Johnny called his Guatemalan drug dealer Freud, after Sigmund Freud, who advocated for medicinal cocaine use, until he got addicted to it…or so Johnny told me–I never touched the stuff.

“Dude,” I said with a giggle. “You can’t say shit like that after taking a line. Obviously you’re not gonna sleep.”

“Na bro, this is the first substance I’ve touched in weeks. No weed, no drink, not even coffee. I’ve been dangerously sober, but I can’t take it anymore.” Johnny fired out from pallid lips. “This is it. I’ve finally lost my shit.”

Johnny oscillated between all out addict and chaste straight edge, depending on the month, season and/or girlfriend. For a frantic fellow, he was unusually regimental when it came to drug use. Summer was filled with ecstasy and cocaine, drugs perfect for pool parties and beach bonfires. Autumn was his psychedelic season; he loved to take mushrooms, go on hikes and watch leaves fall from tired trees. In the winter, benzos, barbiturates and painkillers were mandatory to keep his SAD in check. And spring — which started a few weeks ago, on the day of his birthday, March 20th–was usually spent relatively sober; what he called his Spring Equinox Detox.

“What’s going on, man? Trouble with your lady?” I asked.

“Ah, fuck her. She went to the treasure island rave with her girls. It’s not about her, though. Well…it is…kind of. But not really. It’s more me. It’s always me. She’s just making it worse. I’m thinking about ending it. All she wants to do is party, and I can’t handle that shit right now,” Johnny said while chopping up more lines, not realizing the irony in complaining about partying while chopping up a bona fide party drug.

He met his current girlfriend, Luna, at EDC last May. What should’ve been a weekend fling, turned into a volatile, near-year whirlwind of love and lust and all types of fuckery.

“What is it then?”

“My fucking dreams…nightmares man. Every time I sleep. The same three over and over again. Nightmares from my childhood. Sometimes multiple in the same night. I can’t fucking sleep. And all fucking Luna does is complain that I keep waking her up.” he said, then inhaled a line so long he ran out of breath before reaching the end of it.

“Jesus Christ, man, you’re going to have a heart attack.”

“I have to. I feel like I’m in nightmare on fucking elm street. Gotta stay awake. Gotta stay awake.”

Johnny had never asked me for any type of support in the entire span of our friendship. He was my psychiatrist. I went to him when I had trouble with my girl or work or life in general. He was a manic madman, but he’d always seem to have this strange control over his life and emotions. He was a tempest in a snow globe that soothed friends and family with free verse lyrics of encouragement and hope while perpetually on the verge of a quiet nervous breakdown.

“Alright, calm down. Everything will be alright.”

“Everything will be alright?” he asked, perplexed at my trivial statement . “Everything will be all-fucking-right? Really!? Thank you for the pleasant platitudes, but I don’t need that shit right now!” he said in a decibel level I’d never witnessed. “Sorry man. Fuck. I’m sorry. I just–I just don’t know what to do. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

I didn’t know what to say. All I had was platitudes. That’s what most people wanted to hear. It will be alright. We’ll get through this together. After the storm, the sun will shine. I realized there was absolutely nothing I could say to console my best friend. He’d prefer me to talk shit to him. Joke around. But even that might make things worse.

“I just need someone to talk to. Someone to keep me awake. Someone to just be there. Someone that doesn’t make everything about themselves, like Luna,” he said before I could eek out another platitude. “I don’t want to be psychoanalyzed. Don’t tell me what you think they mean. I already know. I don’t need you to be Sigmund fucking Freud. Just listen.”

“I’ll listen, bro, but only if you lay off the yay. I’m serious. I’ll smoke a J with you and listen, but I can’t pay attention if you’re bumping every ten minutes.” I softly commanded.

“Deal.”

I started breaking up some of Johnny’s top-shelf Buddha to roll up while he told me the first dream.

“This might be my oldest dream…or nightmare…or memory…or whatever the fuck it is. I’m in my childhood home picking up microscopic rocks off the floor of my room and putting them into a trashcan with a giant hole in the bottom of it. After picking up all the rocks in one spot, I pickup the trash can and move to another, oblivious to the rocks tumbling out of the hole onto the area I just spent an eternity cleaning. As I kneel down to recommence my Sisyphean task, my mother creeps in behind me with a terrifying smile. As I open my mouth to tell her I love her, or hate her, or something stupid, her mouth opens and rocks blast out like a high power pressure washer, quickly filling my room, crushing and suffocating me, until I wake up paralyzed, gasping for air as tears flow down my rolled back eyes.”

I stopped breaking up the weed, and awkwardly held a small nug for a few seconds, not knowing if Johnny wanted me to respond back.

As I opened my mouth to say something platitudinal, Johnny cut me off and began the second dream

“I started having this dream when I was around eight or nine—a few years after the other dream. I’m skipping down the sidewalk of some crowded city, likely SF, or hell, dodging lines of people coming at me like an old arcade game, while avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. I can’t see myself smiling, but I know I am. I catch a glimpses of the end of the sidewalk after dodging each line; something kind is at the end, but I don’t know what it is–I just know I have to get to it…”

Johnny stopped and looked at me struggling to roll the joint and laughed. “Ya wey, your first time rolling? Give me that shit, fool.” Johnny said, then took the notebook, his diary, I was using to break up and roll on.

“Fuck, where was I. Um, um…Oh yea…so there’s something warm and fuzzy at the end of the sidewalk; maybe it’s heaven, maybe it’s limbo, maybe it’s Oz, maybe it’s oblivion, maybe it doesn’t matter what it is. After dodging the last line, I see the end clearly. It’s beautiful…whatever it is, it’s glowing in way only possible if a million perfect rainbows converged on a perfect prismatic fractal….Hold up one sec.”

Johnny stopped speaking to apply the last coat of saliva to the joint he rolled in a dozen seconds, then resumed his dream.

“I begin to skip faster, making dangerously large strides while still trying to avoid the cracks. I feel the end pulling me. I know I’ll be safe there. I must get there. I must live there. I must die there…”

Johnny sparked up the J, took five or six micro-puffs then passed it to me.

…Right as I’m about to reach my heavenly unknown, a vantablack shadow appears, forcing me to recklessly skip off-course…the darkness lets loose a portentous cackle as my foot slams into the last crack in the sidewalk…the world shatters around me…the clouds fall like ethereal tear drops…I’m left standing on a single piece of freezing concrete, suspended in darkness.”

“Fuck,” I eek out with a puff a smoke.

“Yea,” Johnny said with a sigh. “That dream is the roughest. Every time I have it, I wake up sweating, patting at my body like I was just pickpocketed. Every time I feel like a part of my soul was stolen.”

End of Part 1



 

I’ll likely never finish this, but I wanted to post something.

 

 

 

Johnny’s Big Bang Theory

“Our universe,

                        all universes,

will implode once every thought has been exhausted.

                                               A single being,

                        maybe an alien,

                                                  will manifest our universe’s final thought,

causing the synapse

                                  which received the final signal

to collapse in on in on itself,

                   creating a mini blackhole that devours our universe in an instant

—then bang,

                         a new universe is created from the being’s consciousness

                                                   who destroyed the previous.”

I Don’t Miss You

I don’t miss you.

I miss my vision of you.

The you from my dreams.

The you who’d stuff large pieces of sushi into your mouth, mid-sentence–despite knowing my pet peeve for people who talk with food in their mouths–while preparing a piece for me with the perfect amount of wasabi and soy sauce, and stuffing it into my mouth, as you finish your train of thought, tempting me to contradict my own pet peeve with a lovely, impish grin.

The you who’d hold me on lovely nights, under lovely skies, and ask me to find the little dipper–despite knowing exactly where it is–just to have me look down, innocently willing to answer your question, and be met with puckered lips, ready for a happily ever after kiss.

The you who’d run your hands through my hair as my head rested on your naked body, while listening to me read out loud–despite knowing I hate reading out loud–an article purporting that the structure of a single human brain cell matches that of the universe so closely that our universe might just be the brain cell of another higher being.

I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss the real you.

I don’t miss the now you.

The you who’d tell be through texts that Somebody else calls me dollface now.

The you who aped my personality–the good, bad and obnoxiously individualist–and incorporated into your own personality like a sartorial accessory.

The you who crushed up my remaining innocence and railed it so you could party for days on end with people I introduced you to, telling them, from a high white pony, about all the fucked up shit I never did, but you say regardless, because it helps you sleep every third night.

I don’t miss you.

I miss my books you kept as your own and show to others to appear interesting and informed.

I miss the records I spent hours and days and weeks scavenging from garage sales, flea markets and Amoeba SF, that you show off despite not having a turntable to play them.

I miss the clothes I bought, which made me stand out, that you decided to cleverly cut into dresses to wear for other men, on other lovely nights, under other lovely skies.

I don’t miss you.

I miss me.

I miss the me you stole and never gave back.

I miss the me that wrote silly, happily ever after poems.

I miss the me that liked to drunkenly tell anyone who wanted to listen about the Greek origin of soul mates…how man was originally created with four arms, four legs, two heads, and one heart, and how they challenged the gods, and nearly won, and because of that, the gods decided that man was too powerful and needed to be split in half so they’d spend their entire lives searching for their other half.

I don’t miss you.



 

I don’t usually write on weekdays, but I needed to get this out.

 

Capsules of Concentrated Sacrifices

I sacrificed my dreams to not have nightmares.

I sacrificed my body to not hate the way I look.

I sacrificed my favorite feature, my changeling eyes, to pills that permanently dilate them, making them appear brown and drab, to not have them half-covered by sleepless eyelids.

I sacrificed my limitless highs to not have crushing lows.

Maybe I should build a pyre of prescription pill bottles and sacrifice my sanity, again, to elevate my psyche back to my pantheon of personality extremes.

Maybe I could find happiness in being Zeus for a few weeks or months, Hades for a few years, Apollo and Athena for a few moments, here and there, all rolled into my primary personality, Dionysus, who drinks wine, takes ecstasy and eats lotus flowers, and live a perpetual life of ritual madness.

Maybe I should just sacrifice myself, and ask to be buried somewhere pretty, with a rose bush growing on top of my grave, not bouquets laying on it to wilt and decay and be blown away.

Maybe sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe I’m stupid for thinking sacrifices are stupid.

Maybe life is a series of protracted sacrifices.

Maybe sacrifices are natural and necessary to advance our lives.

Maybe I don’t like that sacrifices are natural.

Maybe I should burden myself with the sins and sacrifices of others–then sacrifice myself like the scapegoat in the bible.

Yea, maybe I’ll sacrifice myself, my soul, my entire being.

One last sacrifice.

Maybe.

It’s a Beautiful Night

Once upon a love, under diamond studded skies draped in nimbus negligee, two lovers drank cheap Moscato in a park overlooking the city, chain-smoking Kools and flicking the still-lit butts towards downtown hoping a strong west-wind would pick one up and drop it on the silk dress of some floozy who just got done saying like for the 47th time, setting her dress aflame as douchebags, who’ve blown hot air at her and her ilk all night, fan the flames, setting off a chain reaction that travels down each alley, each smoking section, into each bar and club, setting the city’s night life ablaze for days, until all the ego and vanity burns away.

“It’s a beautiful night to watch the world burn,” his lover says before taking the last sip of Moscato and smashing the bottle on the ground.

“I love you,” he replies.

Failure

I just wrote 1188 words to say something that only needed this many words:

I applied for a new position at work. I’ve worked at the company for ten years. I started in production, and now I work a comfy desk job that I’m bored with.

I didn’t get the position because I don’t have a degree. I did a summer course on psychology at community college because I was convinced that I was partially braindead from drugs and alcohol. I got an A- and never went back.

I barely graduated high school. I wouldn’t have graduated without the help of two gay student aids, who thought I was cute, bumping my grade up to a C- in four classes; one teacher who didn’t want to fail anyone because it was his last year; my ability to pass tests despite sleeping in class 87% of the time; and Bush’s No Child Left Behind policy(thanks W).

I got drunk at my graduation, had to be woken up to walk the stage, and threw up as my mother tried to take “one good picture”.

I have a warrant out for my arrest for being an idiot.

I can’t drive cars because of my anxiety and inability to pay attention(which resulted in me getting into 2-3 sober accidents a year).

I have the money management skills of a twelve year old porn addict with a credit card.

I can’t have romantic relationships because they make me sad and/or evil.

 

Fuck, even that was too long.

I guess I just wanted to say that I’m a failure at adulting.

 

 

Oh, to end on a funny note: one of those gay teacher’s aids used to wake up straight guys in class and say, “I want to suck your dick dry,” with a heavy lisp.

The end.

Oy, A Boy Annoyed…Enjoy.

I’m fucking hammered. Like sludge hammered.

Actually, I’m twisted because I smoked some Buddha too. Like real twisted. Like thousands of strands being made into a single unbreakable rope twisted. Like throwing that rope over my rafter and twisting it around my neck twisted.

NOw, I’m mellow. I took my pills. Now I’m just languid. I’ve been drugged up for so long I can take a half dozen drugs, some relatively benign, and still function. Though, I probably won’t remember tonight. I have a penchant for doing the worst things on nights I’ll never remember. Then again, I’m getting old, so me being crazy basically maxes out at me walking my dogs at midnight wearing boxer briefs and headphones.

I just got done reading all of my posts. Jesus Christ. What a burden. I did like three things though: my LUna C. Soledad story, my She poem, and a line from one of my recent ramblings: Smoke and music floats above me as I do ash angels on the floor of my garage.

I like the last line. I don’t remember writing it. It made me think of making ash castles in the rubble of San Jose after my lover burned it down with a pretty ciggy. That’s another reference to something shitty I wrote.

I think my writing has gotten better. I’ve decided that I’m going to finish all my drafts before starting something new. It probably won’t last. I have 183–it’s daunting. I’ll likely delete 83% of them.

I’ve been surprisingly level lately, but I’ve been able to manufacture chaos a little here and there. It’s quite divine. I think I’m going to try and go crazy this weekend. I think I’m manic. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m the red-faced conductor of a mangled train of thought.

There’s an angel in my dreams,

with unfinished wings.

Ah, fuck her.

 

I’ve seen insanity in my dreams

In the form of a being

standing behind a looking glass

staring deep inside of me.

Ah, fuck him.

 

I used to be able to write poetry. It probably sucked so it’s probably best that I only used to be able to.

I started reading again, yay. I’m about thirty books behind this years quota of forty-five. Not that I haven’t been reading, I have, but I’ve just been reading articles that make my dentist talk shit to me.

That’s to say, they make me grind my teeth…ba dum tss.

I try my best to stay away from news website…all of them. I can’t fucking stand the news. I don’t like when a friend tells me news about their lives. That’s shitty. I’m there for them. I’m just antisocial. I just hate how humanity reacts to things. That’s stupid. I’m a shitty person around others. No I’m not. I love the people around me. They suck too, though.

Yesterday I had a doc double header…my psyche and therapist; I really like them both, though my therapist is my age, and pretty, and semi-good at getting me to freely talk about things I enjoy…it’s weird. I’m catching on to her though. I know what she’s doing. From learning about what I like, she learns why I dislike other things. How boring. She says I’m smart. How stupid. I hate that. I told her she sounded like my teachers. “B, stop being lazy and try. You have so much potential.”

How stupid. I hate that shit.

I don’t want to be good. I don’t want to be great. I don’t want to be smart. I don’t want to be special. I don’t want to be anything. I just want to be left the fuck alone.

YEt, I write on here. How can I want to be left alone while writing a stupid fucking blog post that my future self already posted.

Fuck, I can’t leave the post there..it doesn’t make sense. I don’t make sense.

I want to write a story about a man whose dreams gives his lover nightmares, and how he died of sleep deprivation. That doesn’t make sense.

OY, I ran out of booze. Goodnight.