Escúchela, la Ciudad Respirando

So, I was going through my posts and found this. I think it’s from mid December last year. It’s really disjointed; I’m not sure if I typed it all at once or tried to add more to it later.  I opted to post it instead of trash it—might as well. Fuck it, yea?

 

The title of this post is from an amazing song—easily in my top 1000 favorite songs—by Black Star, featuring Common, called Respiration. Black Star consists of Talib Kweli and Mos Def. Most of you reading this probably don’t know who Talib Kwel is, but you might know Mos Def from a few movies; my favorite being Be Kind Rewind with Jack Black. It’s a great flick, check it out. Common also does a lot of acting now, but the only one I can think of off-the-top is Smokin’ Aces. I haven’t gotten the chance to so see Black Star perform, or Common, but I did get to see Talib Kweli at a now-closed club in downtown San Jose. It was my second favorite club back in the day. I got jumped outside it one time for dancing with a pretty Viet girl who, unbeknownst to me, had a gangster boyfriend looking down from the balcony of the club as she happily grinded on me. Him and two other dudes crept up behind me while I was smoking in the alley next to the club. I got my ass beat, but it could’ve been worse. I managed to rock one of the dudes with a right hook as I got up from the initial punch to the back of my neck, before catching a mean punch to my temple, putting me back on the ground for them to stomp the fuck out of me. Temple shots are mean; a perfectly placed punch causes blindness for a few seconds—every fighter knows this. Temple, nose, jaw: those are the knockout points My Marine father taught me. Temple shots hurt like a bitch, but I rather that than nose or jaw. I’ll take a hard kick to my dick over a massive jaw shot. Even if it doesn’t dislocate or break it, a hard hit to the jaw will force you to eat applesauce for a few weeks. Luckily, the jumping didn’t cut or break anything, but it fucked up my ribs for a month. My bestfriend’s Norteno cousins offered to help me find the dudes who did it, but I said na. I was grinding on his girl, I would fight me too—though jumping is pussy shit. It was my third jumping, and fifth or sixth time getting my ass beat. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve lost fights—if you fight enough, you’re bound to lose some. I actually think it’s good for you. Geez, this makes me sound like some type of tough guy. I’m not. I’m stupid.

Fuck, I’m rambling again. I always fucking trail off, digress, fuck up the rhythm and intentions of my posts. I wish I was able to write structured posts or articles. The Do’s and Don’ts of Fucking Killing Yourself would be a good one.

Anyways, the title of the post…it roughly translate to: Listen to her, the city is breathing. It was nearly my first tattoo, but my dumb sixteen year old self was smart enough to decide it was a bad idea to have a homeboy, who just started tatting, attempt to blast the quote across my collar bone. Fuck, that would’ve been bad. I have a couple tats done by homeboys that came out fresh, but garage tattoos are a gamble. One of my nephews had a Oakland crip tat the San Jose Sharks logo on him; It’s a horrendous tattoo, and it’s huge—about  1′ x 1′—the type of shitty tattoo requiring an artist who charges $500 an hour to fix.

See, again, me digressing. How annoying. Fuck it, I’m just going to write everything on my mind…maybe it will somehow connect at the end.

On Friday night, my lover’s good friend put on a one man show at the Randall Museum of Science. It’s a pretty spot sitting on a hill in central SF—a short, though steep, walk up from Castro St., the gay capital of the world and perfect place for her friend’s show: Just a Gay Jewish Boy Living with His Parents.

We were thirty minutes late to the 8 o’clock show because she wasn’t dressed when I got to her place at 7:30…literally not dressed, unless you count the nipple clamps.

It was 8:01 by the time she swallowed my cum. We threw on our clothes in 93 seconds, and I ordered an Uber as we walked to her building’s elevator. On the ride down she lifted her skirt and told me “Whoops, I guess I forgot to put on panties.”

Fucking shit I’m being over-descriptive. My apologies, I’ll spare you the sordid two paragraphs about the 11 minute Uber ride I fingered her in, and the funny paragraph about how we couldn’t get into the museum because they lock the doors after a show begins to prevent people from interrupting it…like we did.

Alright, so we got into the place after security caught us on camera shaking locked doors. They laughed at us, then directed us towards the auditorium. We stopped by the mini bar and had a few glasses of complimentary wine. I left a twenty in one of the glasses. There’s a special place in hell next to murderers and boring people for those who don’t tip properly.

I was sloshed already, drinking nearly a pint of hundred proof on the thirty minute ride up to the city, and my lover was stoned, and slightly tipsy off wine and cum, so we literally stumbled into the packed auditorium filled with the worst type of SF art snobs—the type of fart huffers who’d spend a few grand on a canvas painted white. A few people scoffed at us as we loudly creeped down to the last two seats in the front row. Before sitting down, I scratched the corner of my eye with my middle finger, and stretched a bit, before being pulled down by my laughing lover.

I wish I remembered more of the show. It was truly amazing. The only performance art type of show I’ve ever liked. Not only did he have an amazing voice, he interacted with the crowed so naturally I forgot other people were there. It was mesmerizing. A few tears even dripped out of my normally desolate ducts when he spoke about his grandmother, and her surviving the holocaust, and the current discrimination of the economically efficient populous.

The only part I didn’t like regarded current politics. I don’t want to hear that shit. I know it’s important, but people seem to be exponentially more irrational these days when politics comes up. Everyone is hypocritical: for me but not for thee type of shit, if you know what I mean. And California has the worst types of these people. The people in that auditorium probably cry about racism and bigotry, yet think giving a few dollars to a homeless black guy makes them better, all while living in gated communities, never setting foot in the neighborhoods they act like they care for. Yea, that’s it—that’s the most political I’ll get.

After the show, we stayed long enough to tell her friend how good the show was. He was just as bubbly and personable and goofy in person as he was on stage.

It was still relatively early so my lover and I decided to take a walk down Castro. It’s a beautiful street, filled with beautiful people, all having fun. The clubs were filled with topless men and women grinding on each other to EDM, high off molly and coke. Neither of us wanted to party. “I’m too old for that shit,” I told my lover, which basically means “I’m not trying to do drugs tonight”.

Instead, we went back to her place to play with some of her new toys….I never finished this part, sorry. I’m sure our night was brimming with debauchery, but I can’t remember the specifics and don’t want to just make something up to fill in the gaps.

I hate sleeping with other people, in the literal sense, not fucking, but I enjoy sleeping and waking up next to my lover. She’s a beautiful, broken soul…my type of person. I let her sleep while I chopped up some veggies and fruits and beat some eggs for omelets. She still wasn’t awake after I got done prepping, so I sat down with my coffee and stared out her window. Her tenement is located in the asshole of the city, but the view out her window makes up for all of the junkies and gangbangers and dealers. I took the featured from this window. In the background, you can see the SF City hall.; it’s a pretty building filled with ugly people. People out-of-touch with the average citizen. Liars and charlatans, all of them, regardless the party they’re in—though some are worse than others. Politics represents another aspect of life that forces me to choose the lesser of two evils. Dog shit or cat shit. Place your vote. I’m apolitical now. Who cares. I read an article recently about how native San Franciscans are moving out in droves. Want to know the reason? The top two are: It costs too much and it’s too dangerous. How the fuck does that happen. Shouldn’t the city be safer if it costs more? SF is the most expensive city to live in the US. It overtook NY City in the last few years. I’ve never been to NY, but it looks terrible. My lover and I like sitting in the Civic Center Plaza. We chain-smoke and talk about movies, books and sex toys. Smoking ciggies in SF fucking sucks; most people look down at us living chimneys like we just got done punting a kitten, some still smoke because they think it makes them look cool, and the rest are homeless people who will collectively bum an entire pack in an hour unless you say no.  The best thing to do is keep an extra pack with a single smoke in it. “Sorry man, I only have one left,” I tell them. “Oh, can I still get it,” they respond. Fucking rude. We were sitting in Civic Plaza recently when a homeless man came up and asked us for one. I gave him my usual response, and you know how he fucking responded? “I hope one day you’re homeless and aren’t given a cigarette.” I wasn’t mad, well kind of, but I was more perplexed and annoyed at how fucking stupid that sounds. You asshole. You don’t need a smoke. Get a job. Haha.

Oh, and the title of the post. I love to sit down in front of my lover’s window and listen to the city breathe. The sirens, the yelling, the dealers barking offers for every drug in existence, the honks and horns from shitty drivers on their way to do something that doesn’t matter, the sounds of new apartments being built that my collective family couldn’t afford to live in. All of it. I love it. Though, I’m a masochist.

I think my life is boring, but whenever I talk about it to people living elsewhere, they think it’s exciting. I think I’m just desensitized. I’ve done everything. Now I’m living a life of mundane decadence.

 

This was a weird post. I wish I remembered more about what happened. Interesting though.

 

 

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I Can’t Finish Anything

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t finish shit. I start writing, get into it, then realize I have no fucking idea what I’m writing about, or why I’m writing at all. I keep adding to my drafts, occasionally adding a sentence here and there, but nothing ever gets completed. I know it’s me, but I don’t know how to fix it. I know it’s because I hate everything I do, and not finishing reduces the amount of shit I talk to myself because it’s hard for me to talk shit about something not yet completed, something that might eventually be good. But nope. I hate every post I have on here, but I have hope for every draft. I don’t know. This sucks. I suck. Maybe I need to go back to school and learn how to properly write. I don’t know.

I made it to February sober with the hopes of being able to write after a stretch of not destroying my mind via substances, but my mind is fucked regardless of the shit I ingest.

I think I’m just going to continue to post shit that I’ll never complete. Maybe you all can take it, and make something better, or add onto it to give me inspiration, because, as of now, I feel completely uninspired.

I haven’t started to drink yet, and I know I definitely won’t get shit done if I start to. Maybe getting drunk and spewing on here will do some good. Or maybe I’ll just post a bunch of shit that I’ll wind up deleting manana.

I started writing about a character named Eevee McHale—I’m not sure where I was going, and I’m bored with it:

 

Eevee hated her apartment. It was old and overpriced and surrounded by homeless people cooking stolen steaks on shopping carts, and gutterpunks shooting up in the corners of boarded up shops they shit and pissed on the previous night. Ambulances and cop cars scream up and down the street on a Sisyphean loop, allowing drug dealers to loudly whisper offers for meth and coke and H and every prescription pill on the market to lost tourists staring down at their phones, nervously typing “anywhere but here” into Google maps, not realizing their phones were broadcasting a signal to every fiending addict in need of cash to feed the gorillas on their backs, until a rare kind soul living in the hood tells them to, “Put that shit away, walk north down Turk St, take a left and walk a block or so until you reach SF City Hall, it’s relatively safe there.”

Eevee knew all this before moving in, but she had no choice—it was all she could afford, and barely afford at that. It took nearly a year to properly furnish her shithole; she saved up to buy an occidental futon requisite for studios, a Persian carpet to cover the petrified wooden floors, wrapped canvases and framed posters to cover the dents and scratches and stab marks in the walls, a fancy retro microwave to ensure the food she attempted to cook in the ancient oven was fully cooked, and a slew of rocks and crystals and incense, she bought from one of the hundred new age stores in the city, to place at the openings of both her doors and one window to protect her from the evil spirits and vengeful ghosts that had to have been dwelling in her murder prone tenement. It was still a shithole, but it was her shithole, and after proper furnishing, it actually resembled the bedroom of one of the two million dollar Victorian houses that every person coming to SF dreamed of living in.

How should I begin this?

Hello?

How have you been?

World, I’m back,

Fuck that.

Nothing has changed. I’m still a curmudgeon. I’m still better off left alone.

Though, I think it’s a good idea to attempt to post something of worth on here, yea?

Why?

I don’t know.

I don’t really have anything to say. I haven’t posted in weeks, and I feel like that’s a good thing. I said that I’d delete this blog if I didn’t make it sober into Feb; well here I am, and what? What the fuck? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I learned fucking nothing. I might have well been in a drunken haze for the last month. Instead, I was painfully lucid. Painfully in touch with myself. Painfully aware of all the pain others feel. I fucking hate it. I’m so fucking sick of it. I should’ve never quit drinking. Now I just have pent up anger and annoyance and indignation and all those stupid feelings people who feel too much experience.

I made it to Feb, only barely though. I can’t be around a lot of people sober, so I shut myself in for long periods of time. It’s not them, it’s me–at least, mostly me–but I can’t control my caustic nature. I hate fucking everything. I need booze to function; to like and love; to not sit in a corner and plot the point in time I’ll bash their stupid fucking heads in. I’m crazy, I hate it. I’m nice, really. Or maybe I’m not.

Again, none of this makes sense. Nice post, B—you stupid, fucking moron. Nobody wants to hear your shit. Die.

Nearly four weeks of sobriety and I learned nothing. I didn’t expect to, but I hoped and wished I would. I want something more. I want something more than me but get nothing.

I don’t sit idly. I spent all the time reading about various subjects to better me; none of that retarded chicken soup for the stupid fucking soul or how to not lose your shit and punch your sister in her stupid fucking face.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.

What did I do in my sobriety? I added further annoyances to my purview. I binged on conspiracy theories–flat earth in particular. I laughed at morons not understanding basic science while chastising myself for not knowing the same science.

Conspiracies are hilarious. I fucking love them. Of course, I don’t believe them, with the exception of every Jew conspiracy—they really do run the media and control the weather.

I find the psychology of conspiracy theorists interesting. Maybe, it just gives me the chance to not feel like a fucking dolt.

“Oh, the earth is flat? What about equatorial mounts?” silence.

Easy peaxy.

Oy, another rambling post. Did you miss me? I don’t, didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, never would. I s/b put down. What a whiner I am. Sorry.

I can’t remember the day I quit drinking, and I refuse to look it up, but it feels like weeks. I think I’m right. I’ll guess, first week of Jan–so maybe a month? I don’t know. Who the fuck cares? That’s the sign of an alcoholic. Counting the days like a convict in prison. I think I’d like prison as long as there’s a proper library…how stupid.

I made it sober this long because I shut myself out from society. Bedroom, bathroom, road, train, work, and the same in reverse. The same for weeks. The weekend? Locked in my garage chain smoking, with the exception of my lover coming down one weekend to see who I really was: a sober coward.

I made it though. There was one close call. I hadn’t hung out with one of my best friends for a few months, so I agreed to go play pool with him and my brother. I was excited, high off kratom and Gaba (kinda cheating), but soon after getting to my pool hall, my friend came back and told me my ex was there. Normally, I wouldn’t give a fuck–I’d actually trip more that it was brought up at all–but it was an ex I particularly loathe. An ex who spent her time talking shit about me behind her back to friends I introduced her to. An ex who had the personality of whoever her friends were/who she was dating. She was a chameleon, and I actually envied it. I’ve never had the ability to blend in; to adopt the personality traits of the people I’m around; to fit in; to take advantage of other’s desire to find those like them.

I envied her, but I also hate her, because she’s fake. The fakest person I know. Normally, I don’t give a shit about those type of people, but she stole aspects of my personality–and I’m not being a scornful lover–she stole my fucking personality. The same people she thought she could talk shit about me to laughed as she mimicked my personality.

Fuck, that sounds so bad. I’m a piece of shit, not worthy of emulating. I guess that’s why I hate her so much. I have so much self-loathing, so much pain inflicted by myself and others,; so many lonely years, without anyone, without myself…all I had was my personality, and she stole it. I hate her. She stole a black and blue personality and rocked it like it was a name brand. I hate her. A chameleon cunt. A stupid, fucking  biter.

I ignored her at the pool hall. She came up, expecting me to be something(?), I’m not sure.

I told her that my precum has more personality than she does.

I told her that her Asian pussy is equivalent to a black micro dick.

I’m ashamed of what I said, but I’m glad she got a bit of my wrath.

Maybe I should thank her for inspiring me to write a few clever things.

Now, I’m done with her.

and I’m done posting.

I think I’ll be able to post something pretty manana.

Thank you, all you beautiful individualists.

Oh, not spellchecking or rereading :)/

 

Blows Raspberries

Well, it looks like my creativity went on a sabbatical; I hope the bitch has a good time away from miserable me.

I have a feeling she won’t be back until February, when I can wine and dine her with month aged whiskey and the finest shrooms Haight Street has to offer. Until then, my apologies for the lack of posts or banal rambling.

Johnny’s Prompt About a Prompt

Thanks and much love to: http://porngirl.blog/2019/01/09/johnnys-prompt/

 

      I wasn’t prompt in my response to a prompt another me created.

          but that’s nothing new.

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?  

i wish I knew.

or simply forgot the thought so I could be free to be me without heed.

Just me! Just B!

I don’t know what that is.

Nobody does.

I am

I was

It’s all been said

It’s all been done.

 

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

Must I digress from my digressions?

Must I meta-analyze the metadata of my thoughts?

No

I shouldn’t stress over infinite regress.

Maybe that’s new?

No.

Plenty of people care about not caring

and plenty of people care about people who care about not caring.

That doesn’t make sense.

Nothing does.

I am and was and is and did everything life has to offer.

Why bother?

No matter how inane

how insane

it’s all been done.

Einstein was right

and we’re all crazy

doing the same thing over and over again expecting something different

a new position

a new religion

a new vision

How many more times can I multiply my personality before going crazy?

I need a proper division of me’s

but first I have to subtract a few

To reach my prime.

To be whole.

 

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

                          Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe I should take the advice of an author I can’t think of or find, and write like I’m the first human alive?

 

How many ways can I say there’s nothing left to say?

There’s no new way to say there’s nothing left to say

                  so why say anything at all.