Shy so Delirious

I quit.

And so should all of you.

We all know people are shit and the world is fucked. What, besides a biological imperative, keeps us going?

Silly things like love and hope and dreams….all bullshit.

There is no heaven,

There is no hell.

YOU DO NOT MATTER….but we’re all matter.

How fucking stupid.

I’m not sure where I was going with this; I think I was saying that I hope everyone has a lovely night.

Don’t drink kiddies. It’s called spirits for a reason—because it takes your spirits…or so I read on some flyer from the temperance movement in the 1920’s

FUck you…and I’m out. Suck my dik.

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So Many Posts

I got another bottle—let’s get faded.

A song I’d never heard played as I stumbled into my garage, stepping over my sleeping guard huskies. It’s amazing, or I’m drunk; it’s Dramamine by Modest Mouse. I might just like the video cuz it’s trippy as shit, but the guitar in it’s pretty dope. I only knew Float On by them, which isn’t a bad song, just played out.

How many more of these can I do tonight?  This is probably the last. I’m sleepy now.

It’s only nine, but it feels like it’s manana morning. Fuck. Getting old sucks, or it’s good, or who cares?

I wake up early at least, yea?

Tomorrow will definitely hurt. Too much booze, not enough food, too many pills, not enough hope—I’m guaranteed to have anxiety tomorrow.

I should stop writing this shit.

What do you people want? Do you want someone to tell you that life’s a dream? That everything will be alright if you try your hardest? That we’re all equal? That if we complain enough, we’ll eventually create a paradise?

It’s all shit

You’re all stupid.

I’m stupide

We’re all stupid.

Don’t try.

Give up.

You might as well start shooting heroine—if you have an upper personality, take coke, but know that eventually you’ll need an intervention, the same one I had to do for a fam member….they quit coke, but only because the had meth to switch to.

I really am nonsensical. Why am I writing like everyone else is living my life. I’m just rambling. Pay no attention.

I’m pretty sure people only like my posts because everyone enjoys a nice dumpster fire.

I hate all of you.

I hope you all die horrific deaths.

Let’s see how many people unsubscribe from me.

Let’s see how many masochists there are.

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Y is the Worst Consonant

WHY I CANT I GET DRUNK ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fucking shit. A bottle of wine down, a pint of Brandy and a J of top shelf—what the fucking shit? I should be slurring. I should be howling at headlights and throwing rocks on the moon…but no. I’m as sober as a person can be after ingesting this amount of booze and weed. How fucking stupid. I need more drugs. I need some ex or coke or shrooms or painkillers or barbs or maybe some lenos….fuck it, I’m down. I’m running out of substances to make me not feel like how I feel. Every version of me is becoming normalized. I have to off some of my personalities–there are too many.

What the fuck.

How stupid.

I want to fucking slur like a drunken idiot. I want to go to the liquor store and steal a Playboy like a teen, or skip down the street to the train depot by my house and bust a piece on the side of a freight train.

Fuck, these moods are bad.

I think the Gabapentin prevents me from getting drunk; it has to be that.

Maybe I should take my sleeping pills before my drunken wish comes true.

Or maybe I should just smoke enough weed to scare me from going outside and getting into trouble.

Maybe I should paint.

Maybe I should destroy.

Maybe I should do both.

gets in where you fits in

I don’t think I’m meant to be on this site. Everyone seems to have the ability to type out these wonderfully fluid posts, perfectly expressing their feelings and thoughts and concerns and advice on how to remove under eye bags.

I wish I was able to write a proper article. Maybe I should go back to school to relearn how to write properly structured essays, instead of incoherent ramblings. I’d love to write a proper article or listicle; something like: 5 Cool Ways to Kill Your Fucking Self or the Top 10 Reasons Why Self Harm is Actually a Good Thing or the Benefits of Stopping Your Cocktail of Crazy Pills All at Once.

Is unMotivational speaking a thing? I’d be the fucking Michael Jordan of it.

I don’t think we’ve reached that point yet, though we’re getting close. Post irony is gaining traction,

and we’re all doomed.

An absurd hellscape.

Are you ready?

That doesn’t make sense….or does it?

I’m really going to regret these posts manana.

At least I’m not sending dick pics.

Oy, I’m going to regret saying that, but I told myself that I wouldn’t delete anything I typed out.

I don’t really send dick pics—I think it’s corny—and 89% of women agree. The last girl who asked for a dick pick got a google image of a micropenis sent to her. She still wanted to chill. That was years back though. I should’ve turned that into a thing…seeing if a girl still wanted to see you after you sent her a pic of a micropenis, claiming it’s yours.

Sorry, I have a weird, maybe dark, sense of humor.

Ramble, ramble, ramble, I should’ve had a better preamble to this post.

The pint of Brandy is gone, so I’ll be going to the store—talk to you all in a bit.

Stay sleazy, and please hate me.

Piss Stream of Conscious

I’ve switched to Brandy and given up hope of finishing my draft. Oh well. And so it goes. Cest la vie. All that stupid shit.

It’s crazy how fast I get drunk. Or it’s not, I guess. My drunkenness is boring. That’s not a good thing for me to say or think—it always winds up getting me into trouble.

I have no drugs, with the exception of weed, but I’m not a huge smoker, so the J I’m puffin right now is fucking me up.

Weed is wonderful for certain people. Horrible for others. My brother and I have a phrase for people who get too high: dude’s in Deebo’s pigeon coup. It’s a reference from the movie Friday. In it, Chris Tucker, playing Smokie, smokes angel dust with the homies and winds up cooing in Deebo’s pigeon coup. Pretty fucking funny. Classic stoner movie. There’s a 50/50 chance I wind up in Deebo’s pigeon coup. Though, I have sleeping pills so I can always check out.

I’m in one of those moods. Drunk as fuck. High as fuck. Barely able to see the words I’m typing yet still able to complete sentences with relatively few grammatical errors. Nights like this make me think I can become a full blown alcoholic. Maybe.

What a sad thing: to only feel normal after a healthy amount of hundred proof indifference. My doctor would say it’s not normal, but she doesn’t know shit. She thinks she does. She thinks she’s making gains, but I’m on to her shit, so I’m creating false rooms for her to enter.

Me sabotaging myself again. Me hating myself again. Me not wanting to be fixed again.

Maybe I don’t want to be fixed because I’d have no more excuses as to why I’m a failure. That’s probably it. My sickness gives me an out. It gives me a reason to hate and resent and fight and give up. Or maybe people are shit, and the world is fucked, and my sickness is actually normal. How corny. I hate when people say, “Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you, there’s something wrong with the world; you’re normal.” Fucking annoying. Sorry if any of you feel that way. To me, that’s fucking stupid. We’re all fucked. There’s no hope. There’s no escape.

I can’t kill myself, because my sister or mom or bestfriend or niece might if I do. Is that why people don’t kill themselves? A suicidal domino effect?

I wonder if a depressive singularity is a thing? Or if that even makes sense…probably not. I have dreams—yes, dreams, not nightmares—about the entire world killing themselves at the same time. How stupid for me to think everyone in the world is as miserable as me. To think that everyone looks at social interaction as something I have to do, not something I naturally do, and enjoy.

How fucked up. I know everyone doesn’t think this way, but I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying.

I don’t know anything.

Everything is maybe.

Buddha, I’m stupid.

 

 

Lonely

I feel incredibly lonely tonight. I don’t know why. This doesn’t happen often. I’m used to being alone, but I’m rarely lonely. What the fuck.

I should go out to a bar and try to pick up a girl.

I think my love of flirting and flings are two of the reasons why I can’t be in a relationship…duh. I’m a novelty whore. I hate things being the same–even good things. God, that’s fucked up and stupid. I can’t be saved. The meds can balance my chemicals, but I have to learn how to control my impulses.

Is it worth it?

I don’t think so.

I know my lover will say she doesn’t care, but I think she might.

Shortly after we first started playing with each other, she told me that she wanted to have a threesome, maybe a foursome, but now she says, “I just want to fuck you.”

I know what that means, and I can’t allow it. I’m such a piece of shit.

She keeps buying me things; girls always seem to, and I hate it.

My mom told me one of my exes was trying to buy my love. She was right. That ex spent a thousand dollars on my birthday, then got offended when I told her that I would’ve been happy with a handpicked rose and a smile. I thought it was cute…maybe not, I don’t know.

My sis in law’s cousin is pansexual—a term that I hate, but I hate most labels—and she told me that I should get into a polyamorous relationship. But I don’t want that either. I don’t want a label. As Oscar Wilde said, “From a label, there’s no escape”. I’ve probably already used that quote in a post. It’s one of my favorites, along with, “People know the cost of everything but the value of nothing.” The Picture of Dorian Grey is a goddamn quote mine. It’s easily one of my ten deserted island books. I think Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon is another one, and the bible is another, though I’m not religious, and the rest would probably be collections of short stories; from Gorge Luis Borges, for one, but I’m too drunk to think of the others.

So, sex, polyamory, fucktoys, spitting in mouths, choking, all night fucking—none of it matters if you’re still lonely.

Me, again, complaining about having shit that most people want. God, I’m fucked in the head.

Prepare for more stupid posts tonight since I can’t finish a story. I started three drafts while writing this so some of them might be redundant.

Sorry.

I hope you’re not lonely. If you are, find someone to cuddle or fuck or sext.

I’m not spellchecking or revising tonight—apologies for any errors.

How Boring

I’ve been drinking goblets of red wine since noon. I realized why people drink red wine: it tastes like shit, making it easy to drink in moderation. That’s probably not true. On second thought, I’ve bendered bottles of red wine for the same reason. And I guess vodka tastes like shit, but I still drink a handle of it over the weekend. Another one of my theories dismantled by my self shortly after hypothesizing

How boring. I’m stupid.

Anyways, I feel great again. The meds must be working because I usually fucking hate December. It’s cold— and I know, complaining about the weather while living in one of the most temperate places in the world is annoying—but the worst part about this stupid month is Christmas. I don’t remember ever liking Christmas, not even as a kid, though I know I had to like it at one point in my youth. I hate buying presents, and I hate receiving presents. I do like watching kids open up presents, but I like most things kids innocently enjoy. I guess I just enjoy innocence, but too much of it results in me imagining all the ways life will rape their innocence.

How dark. I’m stupid.

New Year’s, my third favorite holiday, is coming up. Yay. I get to tell 2018 to fuck off. Or maybe I should smile at 2018. It actually hasn’t been too bad, I think, but I’m not sure.

We’ve thrown New Year’s parties at my house for the last three years. I always have fun, but it’s probably because I’m always hammered and coked up. This year should be chill though; we have a baby in the house, reducing the likelihood of heavy drugs being present. I don’t think my sis in law even invited any of our drug friends, so I think I’m safe.

I could be wrong. I’m stupid.

My lover is coming to the party. She also doesn’t drive, so she has to take BART down and Uber from the station a few miles away. I’m excited to see her, I always am, but I’m not excited to have all my friends drill her about our status. For some reason, I’m scared that she’s going to tell one of my friends that she wants more. Some of my friends will tell her that I’m not dateable, but some of my friends, who want me in a classical relationship, will urge her to talk to me about actually getting together. I can’t do it. I won’t do it. I am not dateable. I’m too moody and too impulsive for classical relationships; she’d hate me after a few weeks. Fuck. I’m getting anxiety. She got on birth control recently because she wanted to see my cum drip out of her. Sorry to be crass. Getting on birth control seems like some next step shit, but I could be wrong. I’m the first guy she’s been with since becoming a hasbian, and she said my dick is amazing. I’m kind of cheating though, using Viagra, but, due to the meds, without it I’m bonerless for weeks at a time. Marion fucking Cottillard could be naked in front of my, begging to suck my dick, and I’d just stand there with a limp snufulupugus. Viagra is kind of dangerous for me, for all alcoholics probably, because I can drink tequila all night and still fuck for an hour. Before, I’d have to drink in moderation if I planned on fucking. Now I fuck like a drunk pornstar.

How stupid.

I’ve been writing all day. Unfortunately, it’s a new story that I’ll never finish. Another depressing draft that I’ll open up, then close, then open up, then close, for perpetuity. Maybe I should stop writing this post and get back to work on the other.

These posts are really getting boring. I feel like I keep on saying the same thing. Maybe that’s just life. Maybe there’s nothing new left to say.

How boring.