I wonder if anybody else does what I do. What I really do, I mean. That I can makes joke about it now in here, I see it as progress, even if it's a retro night trying to mimic a lax smooth progression into oblivion. I don't feel the same, even as I keep doing the same shit. I'm still the same, but I don't feel the same. And that's a statement I use conscious of the particular weight I give it. Somehow, since April my mind is continually being introduced to new stipulations and circumstances, that it would probably never see going with the width of my behavior in some uncomfortable sea. And I know you think that doesn't make sense, but I think that word could work. Looking back now, at just only the few months prior to—and it was so perfect, how first contact hit me the night I couldn't have prepared playtime more perfectly. All I could muster up at the time were some pitiful allusions, while I was studiously launching its career into stardom. And I was so humble, I knew it wouldn't need me anymore to nuture it, and I was proud, and, and I never knew when my face would contort, and I couldn't talk to people anymore, but I always knew I didn't have to worry about it anymore, what they saw, it was beautiful. My tone, it was dead, but only on the surface, tears would hit my nerves inexplicable, and I didn't know what to make of it except that it felt good to make a left turn that moment. All I could do was make references to it, and I'd be so drunken full of tears that all the misspellings were a disaster and that made it more special, and it was perfect. It was the only way to convey a tone. And I was going through my patterns and deep into it, without saying something here in between, some new golden self-reflection, and then going back into the thick of it, the sounds, headphones—I wasn't even looking through the curtains anymore, or worse, at the curtains, some vulnerable insterstice, something uneasy. It was turning into a home. There was nothing left in here. There was no hope, but luckily it didn't need anything of redeeming value to work with. I didn't realize that new information until I pieced it together from the messages the people in my delusions had been bombarding me with.
I look back fondly on those days, when in the vulgar spasming sour matter of my mind—kind of a reaching sentence there—the malaise of my soul and rapture of my loins had felt the breath of some convoluted truth too crazy to be real—too grand, too terrifying, overwhelming like a new ocean, too much of one big thing —but too abrupt and reinvigorating to remind the brain that it had just made sense, even if it was only in the haze.
Somewhere in its extremes, from unwitting martyr to celebrity hero then back to plain and drowsy, from sweet-heart romance ploys to identity theft, from blackmail to blurting out my secrets, then back home again with my defects to take with me. And usually, all I'm left with are the issues in my head to address. And I do that now, I address them. It's easier than to work on them. Some of them, I honestly don't know what field can handle them. And during this time I've stumbled into a confidence in my writing that I've only aired in drunken boasts before. Daily my life has a slight purpose that I hadn't much looked into before. And if I can write something cool that night, that keeps me going; and if I can be start being of service—I mean, even by default that's going to shoot me through my day—but if I could write something cool, too, that day, on top of being useful...Something instilled in my life some meaning. Something allowed me to talk about things I couldn't bring up, even if it was by way of blackmail, torture, rebellion, and lunacy. My actions today may not reflect it, but I hope you're reading this.
I have difficulty staying sober for any long period of time to show him a progress report of concrete results backed by nothwithstanding facts—those are facts that stand on their own—on those days when he's up at 5, but couldn't sleep, and the TV won't turn on for the game, the channel list won't load on their site it's so hard being a fan in this country, they 're all racist against me that's why they make it so difficult and what the hell, really, is the point anymore if it won't turn on as the minutes are being played? It's such an insolent existential affront to me by that shit independent sphere of life technology...and I got up early, but no page views for the new post, and I know shouldn't be checking every hour especially when I sense the irrational spite and fear, and I thought I had airifiable evidence this time that people were out there, and now—and now it's 5am, the TV won't come on, and I got no page views and nothing, nothing! I went to sleep with the hope of a balloon...And she didn't stop by with the recent pattern we had been building in our relationship, so she might be doing that right now, and my whole life is trying not to do what I do, what I really do, and she's up there doing that or, or living—it may have never even been her—and I'm down here, and she may not even think of me and all I got to look forward to is acceptance...I mean, why even bother sometimes, and the bluetooth in the car keeps turning on and off like a meanspirited prank whlie I'm sensing that even God knows I can't suceed and all my jokes have a sour aftertaste and I don't feel patience, tolerance, and love for others, and prayer enrages me when the cigarette just won't go out—how many times, and how can I pray when the seat belt is acting up again and I yanked it 17 times and I'm trying everything at once and you can forget about gently pulling it back and out and fuck him I'm pulling out first, and I just know my nerves won't rest on any accomplishment the day's tasks will bring. There's really not one cause, and all the causes combined don't warrant my kind of response, so there's no real explanation other than it was a choice to drink. My nerves just won't rest, and somehow my prize is the week long olympic marathon of depravity.
Basically, any reason becomes as potent as another, when the thought's been planted. Once I realized that, I allowed myself to give up, then I tried not to waste any more time. At the end, I failed to utilize the tools others have suggested; maybe they don't work for me the same way, or I go ahead and do it anyway, drink. I'm talking about drinking. I drink good. I'm kind of an asshole when I walk into a liquor store on relapse, because I've been wretched in my car prior like a Dostoevsky character, with psychologically acute sensations. I try to rip the material off the top with my teeth and give him too much cash, and he gives it back and I say nothing and some years ago they changed the glue or something on the wrapper on the of head of the Jack bottle, sure that could be a dick, and I cuss them out everytime for how many tries it takes to rip the damn thing off, and then I chug it down the first chance I get like it's from withdrawal, which is kind of dramatic and pretentious, but my nerves always make me exaggerate it like it's my water. And then when I'm ready for the chase—I'll tell you, the walk from the car to the room, when I know I have everything and can lock up—it's the most frantic piece of bliss that I know. I'm sick, bird.
If I'm confident, I'm cocky, then malcontented. Then I'm insecure, cocky, spiteful, and drinking; I chew on self-pity, and all because of ego. I'll be doing some sort of service, which isn't much but, and I'll find myself judging others if I'm in a foul mood—that I have them all figured out by their car and their look—that their souls aren't special enough for spiritual afflictions—and that's exactly how I fear peolple neatly brushing me off. If a girl doesn't check me out, especially if she's going about her day, but especially if she looks like she's going about her day, I'm already above her and the choices she's made.
I could've kept up the integrity of the blog in subtler ways, but this is how things stand at the moment. I thought I'd be more dispirited, broken only like things that can't physicalky break, but I just went back to where I left off when I got high, and there are things I would like to do now. And I figure I can sort that out if I can get some time to sort that out. Part of me was reading into the closed captioning during the shows on TV—I think every show's about me now, or on my relapse days, they have the actors read special lines—but a a part of me wouldn't let me try to read into them. I tried not to react and stick to the game plan and concentrate on theincentive at hand. I tried to ignore you. This shouldn't have happened, and it's alarming how I deal with the prospect of an unpleasant day. Didn't know how I'd fall from your thoughts.
Well, one thing I have to change, I gotta set some bottom line behavior towards checking my stats. That worked great the last month, and I have results to show for it. Then I hit the bottle and went straight for the pageview. I heard in a show today while I was in the thick of it a line about one of the characters not changing his work, that he may not have worked toward a change he desired, so I'll take that into mind. Really though, I'm short on ideas, considering how lazy I am with growth. Pots, stacking up p.o.t.s I was to blame. In another show, I was the child, and she was another character but she already had a real child. Then back in the other show, I had the whole crew following me through caves and rock for some hidden treasure or insignificant dust hidden in the rocks, and there were maps or radors of where the dust particles were to be found if one were to walk right in to the cave, and he looked like me and was always sulking and when he sat his hands were always placed on his crotch like he wanted to get to work but people would be around him. And when people were standing or sitting around on a break ib the caves, with the rocks and tgeir clothes having similar colors, every body was always in some sexual position like an abstract painting. And then finding new work? I'm a felon. Well, I have tatoos. Well, I don't have the tattoos. But I have some stories about the drunk tank. There's the one where I wrapped the toilet paper around my feet when they took off my socks. When they asked me personal questions I told them I was suicidal so I could go to the special cell—I didn't want to be thrown in with the gangs—but it was cold, and it was a city jail and pretty empty and they kept me in longer than general pop for observation. So that kind of backfired. Here's a little illustration to go with it, remember?
- Hey, let me get some toilet paper.
- No.
- C'mon man, I gotta take a shit.
- Get away from me!
I didn't really say that. The important thing is that I thought about it.
And here's one about my time in county.
- Welcome to county, boys.
- Hey, you guys got Wi-fi? I gotta check my blog.
What's strong about that piece, is that I use the word, "county" to highlight what I had just revealed, that it was a piece about county. Moreover, I am now making the word brighter, aesthetically.
Some more notes about my time in lock up: after a couple days when they moved us into smaller pods, as opposed to packed cells, and I started acting like myself because nothing traumatic had happened, I wasn't jumped or had to pick a side and jump in the fight—well, one security guard yelled at me for approaching him instead of another officer and asked if I wanted a kiss, and that he's not my mother. That kinda hurt my feelings—even though he's right, he's not my mother—and it was embarassing because the whole section heard it and laughed. Anyway, in the evening, when I made a joke to an inmate—he was childish like me, we hit it off comfortably—and his friend, who was of the same race as him, the other guy didn't laugh, and just stared at me. When I found myself wondering if this guy might not like me, I realized then I gotta lower my expectations here, and not be myself. I wouldn't last.
The day I turned myself in and ended up being put in the crazy hold, that was one of the scariest days of my life, when during the interrogation I was convinced I was going away for a very long time, 7- 8 years at least, based on the evidence and charges I felt them presenting, their vile tone, facial expressions, third person stories they would in passing tell each other about scum bags who should be burned and I knew it was directed towards me; which special guy to put me in with, and it was so uncomfortable on the chair with the chains behind my back, I would knod off when I could get away with it and my head would hang, I started looking forward to the bunk, I made no effort at a defense, I was defeated and petrified but too tired to absorb it—and all I heard was moaning, and when the porn wasn't streaming anymore, I heard a voice in another room say "Thanks for taking care of my girlfriend" and I didn't look up but two guys and a girl walked past the interrogation room and one of the men stuck his head in and looked at me. And on top of that, by turning myself in, I had inadvertently expediated their scheme, because I started realizing in the squad car that their Cheif was in on the conspiracy—I already started picturing him as a powerful man, corrupt, with millions or hundreds of thousands he makes from his powerful position—so when I turned myself in so my parents wouldn't be exposed to anything more than me sounding crazy, I realized, when I was in the back of the squad car, that the whole city and police department—I envisioned the head of city and the chief of police having fruit with their lunch on some golf course in suits, in a powerful and corrupt, but more powerful manner—when I saw a police officer get the signal, walk over to my dad, and flash him the evidence they were blackmailing us with, a picture of me masturbating.
I was so worn down in the process, the night before with the ninjas stalking the house cause I wouldn't answer to them, that I never allowed myself to hold any hope that I was only on a hold like the officers had said in front of my parents; and at one point, when the health employees were checking my...well, my health, and when they were feeding me some food, one of the nurses—the way I saw her facial expression, I immediately screamed out, "What happened?" I was convinced she was about to tell me my mother had a heart attack, when she found out about the pictures of me masturbating and how everyone was extorting them for $12 million, all because of what I had sunk to. I realized they had been following me for some time, in all the motels previous, and I was the weak link with poison as moral fiber, and I was now a deserved target. I slept for what seemed like forever on the most comfortable lazyboy sofa's ever. And I was still sleeping and was on a girdle when I found I was being let go when they were moving me. I later asked my dad if the cop didn't show him a evidence photo of me jerking off—because I had seen his face and eyes sink into his stomach and his back crotch with it—and he said the officer had just given him my ID back.
