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 :)/

 

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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.

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.

Mundane Musing

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.

Hmmm.

I can’t think of anything happy at this moment.

People are shit, the world is fucked?

That will have to do.