I write tonight
to understand tomorrow.
I write tonight
to understand tomorrow.
Type out, delete.
Type out, delete.
Trash the draft.
I read all of my comments, but I’m too stupid to respond to them. I’ll try manana. I’m sorry.
It’s getting to the point where it would be much better, and probably more original, to copy sentences and paragraphs from my previous drafts and paste them in a new one.
It’s all the same.
I’m so boring.
Yea, I did bad things on New Years, and I’m just getting back to feeling like myself—whatever the fuck is ‘myself’.
I have to quit drinking. I’m a tough dude, but even hardened alcoholics have to take a break after spending a night and morning throwing up blood, followed by three days of shitting blood. I’m alright, though.
I’ve decided that I’m going to delete this blog if I can’t stay sober until the end of January. I like this blog so I think it’s a good threat.
Sober three days, how boring.
Sobriety reminds me that I’m a masochist and coward. I hurt myself because I’m afraid others will.
Painful lucidity: that’s what sobriety provides me. Everything makes sense, and that’s why it’s painful. I see the world for what it is tonight, but I don’t have the booze to forget that I saw the world for what it is tonight.
And the nightmares…The nightmares. …All I can do is strategically sleep for a few hours at a time to keep them at bay. I’m running through my meds. If I keep up the pace, I’ll have to tell my doctor that I lost them again, or something, to have them refilled early.
I’m a mess, surprise, surprise. What will I do without booze? And sleep? And hope?
At least I’m used to the latter taking plush sabbaticals.
I ingest spirits to scare away the ones squatting in my decrepit temple.
I need to renovate my mind….I guess that’s what a New Year is for.
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.
We’re all stupid.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I’m fucking useless. I do the same thing over and over again, and expect things to get better—that’s the definition of insanity, yea?
Actually, I don’t expect things to get better.
Maybe that’s the problem.
That’s obviously the problem.
I’m the problem.
I didn’t do coke on Saturday like I thought I was going to—instead I bit a large piece off a quad stack of what was likely meth based EX, and spent the entire night being the life of the party.
I fucking hate myself.
I’m so fucking fake.
They don’t know me.
Even my close friends have normalized this version of me.
I’m the slut.
I’m the one charming girls I hate into having unprotected sex in bathrooms.
I’m the one convincing straight dudes that it’s not gay to triple kiss a heterosexual couple………..if you kiss the girl more.
I’m the one that will always wind up drunk and/or high, despite never having alcohol and/or drugs.
I feel out of place.
I feel like I was born into a world I wasn’t supposed to.
I wish I had friends who loved art and literature.
At the best, I have friends who have video games and comfort food.
At the worst, I have friends who gang bang and funk for fun.
I don’t want this post to come across as talking shit; I love my fucking friends, and they love me—I’m just ashamed of myself.
I hate myself.
I hate that I’m hopeless.
I hate that I’m the one out of my friends and family that’s supposed to do something with my life.
I asked my dad the other night if he felt if his military career was worth it. If he liked the country he served without question, and almost died for in Vietnam.
I don’t remember what he said.
These posts are starting to annoy me. They’re starting to look like the journals I .burned while drinking cheap wine and/or Johnny Walker, and chains-smoking.
I did it again.
I wrote a stupid post.
I took drugs over the weekend and just recovered from them today.
I killed a few more brain cells.
and created a few new friendships with gangbangers and thugs and drug dealers.
Why do I fucking do this?
I did it again.
I hate myself again.
I should turn this post into a poem or something, but I’m too lazy, and too drunk.
At least my grammar isn’t bad, right?
I don’t know, I’m not checking.
I’m feeling like shit today…the same as yesterday…and the day before—and I know it’s likely the result of the EX fucking with my serotonin and/or dopamine.
It really is the worst drug for people like me.
People like me can’t feel that type of pleasure.
Us sentimental people—reminiscing over that one time a Japanese-Argentinian girl pulled me over to a concave speaker at a semi-underground rave for her to sit on, lifted up her dress and made me lick every drip the pounding speaker fucked out of her……Sorry to be crass. And what a dirty, sentimental memory.
How about the time…
I can’t think of anything—-I know I have some pretty drug memories in the crystalized museum in my mind…..
EXHIBIT UNDER CONSTRUCTION
I told myself that I was going to dedicate an entire day to creative writing this weekend.
Today is that day, I think.
I can’t tomorrow because I’ll be hungover, once again, as a result of intense partying tonight with friends I haven’t seen in months, who sent me a panoramic picture of all the booze they have, along with the commensurate amount of coke and molly.
It’s going to be a rough Sunday.
I really don’t want to rail and roll tonight, but if I’m drunk, and it’s there, I’m doing it—I have no fucking self control; and it’s rough being sober around a sea of swinging jaws chain-smoking menthols, in between chain-chewing gum, while rubbing each other down with Vick’s VapoRub to the beat of a song that likely already played three times.
At the very least, I’m doing some coke tonight (it’s funny how that’s my at the very least). I can still somewhat handle coke, as long as it’s actual coke. A glass of Johnny Walker Black pairs nicely with a few bumps. I just need to make sure I do it in moderation.
That’s not going to happen.
If you do coke right, small bumps here and there spread across a few hours, it’s like downing 5 Hour Energy, but I can never do anything right. One bump, turns into one line, turns into two lines, turns into I feel like I’m going to have a fucking heart attack.
The last time I went to this friend’s house we stayed up until three in the morning doing coke and exchanging Spanish idioms. It was pretty fun, but I was fucked for 2-3 days after.
Fuck, I complain too much.
Look at me; I have friends who always want to hang out with me; I have a seemingly endless supply of feel good substances; I have family members who call me their favorite; I have a lover who only lets me cum in her mouth, even if I’ve been binge eating asparagus.
Why do I complain so much?
The things is, I don’t.
This blog is the only place I complain.
Everyone around me thinks I’m always happy. They think that I’m an easy going neo-hippy with conveyor belt shoulders.
They think my glass is always half full…but they don’t realize that’s only because my bottle’s half empty. That doesn’t make sense.
In reality, in my own world, I’m a miserable curmudgeon, perpetually annoyed and angry and frustrated, with a black hole of hatred in my amygdala.
I hate that I’m a deeply hateful person. Great, more meta fuckery.
That’s not to say that I’m never happy. I have moments here and there of ethereal happiness, but only moments, which is depressing in itself; the fact that happiness is fleeting. But everyone experiences fleeting happiness. How boring
I know I’m too sentimental. One of my exes once told me that. What a cunt, pardon by British, but she really does deserve the harsh word. She did and said things to me with the express purpose of hurting me, while I only hurt her by accident. Maybe that’s worse. Maybe the fact that I didn’t know her enough, or didn’t care enough, to not hurt her is far worse than her intentional tormenting. I probably deserved it. Nevermind, she’s not a cunt—I am.
Why am I talking about an ex I was with a decade ago? How stupid.
I have to end this with a positive note so I can get to writing the part two of my Luna C. Soleda.
I can’t think of anything happy at this moment.
People are shit, the world is fucked?
That will have to do.