- Chuck, you and me both man...
*
- What? My gorgeous prostate? Don't make fun of me, or I'll hurt your feelings.
*
Oh, wait till my songs come on the jukebox, everyone at this bar, surely will hoist me above their shoulders, mainly Persians, they'll all kiss each other like Netochka Nezanova—those best friends kissed each other a lot, I was like, Mom, yo, these girls just kiss each other the whole time, like on every page—hoisting me, they will, their beards trimmed, like my cousin Arin, whom I love, and Matt, from college—him, not so much. He didn't invite me to his wedding. Are you kidding? He doesn't know about playtime—center of the room, I would be. He's gelus—and what's the drink of choice for those types? Oh, you know the type, they'll say Ara, until someone retorts, Ara che, Ara...and they'll say, Che, Aper, yes Parskahav em...cause he's drunk, god bless his heart, fuckin Matt—he was about to get his ass kicked till Armen stepped in and hit 'em with some colloquial shit, to which they nodded and acknowledged. My friend Armen is a great writer, who I always envied and criticized for his ego. He would respond, "I'm not egotistical; I'm just better than you." I wouldn't say anything, cause I realized he could have meant it. One time we had a class together, and I ended up having to walk out of the class laughing the first day cause we couldn't stop throwing things at each other, it was small, but he had to have the last word, such is Armen's wrath. He was really into House of Leaves, and Thomas Pychon, shit like that. But he knew where I stood—if it's not Dostoevsky, I don't read it. I wore my trenchcoat and Real Madrid Jersey freshman year; he liked the Lakers, and I would always quiz him on Biggie and Tupac, feuds 50 cent was in—just so he could snap and ask me how the hell was he supposed to know on the drive to school, I wasn't allowed to drive throughout the years. During our final paper, I was strung out, and Armen wouldn't let me copy—we got into an ego war, and Matt was upstairs giving this white chick a massage—his move would take half an hour, the Persian seduction, and I said fuck this, I'm horny, and I dropped the class. Now, Armen's a lawyer, but I think I'm in a better spot. He'll get the money, but I'll get the glory like Elvis in the 70s—sweet Catherine Edwards. He could do so much better, in my view. He largely ignores my texts, because I look up to him and try to fuck with him; I saw him in front of a hip bar on Ventura last week, the Woodman, looking like Cristiano Ronaldo—some haircut CR7 had that Armenians have now, so I pulled up and asked if him and his friends if they were the valet. I definately won that one!
...but, you know, go, Johnny Walker Black, and Matt and the Persians, I spit my nose on them. And the barkeep— I tolds her, I'm going to sit here and look intellectual...then they'll say, them who hoist me up, What next? And I'll say to the chess machine, drop me off here, gently, you Persian haves, cause I have flat feet—and that's not baller. Some hot girl will say, Oh, are you a chessmaster? And I'll say, Sure, you're hot, but I wonder how you look in a picture. And she'll say What? And I'll say, Nevermind—but I memorized the moves on this machine. I have the top score in all the bars across the city. Look for me, I tell her.
Not without my daughter, she says.
AndreaSucksCo, I tell her. That's the bitch that won't serve me. We went to elementary.
One time, me and Armen were driving to school through Beverly Hill, and smoking our Parliament Lights—we should be sponsored by them we would joke—and he asked real quickly while joking if he died, would I cry? And I thought that was brilliant, cause you can't respond.
*Night Out
*Night Out
Jared's leftovers!
What do you think? Peter Pan food? I'm saving it for when my taste buds come back. I'm pretty excited about sharing this picture with you, because it looks like the lost boys' imaginary food. I know I'm not the only one who gets hungry during that scene.
But I only figured out I was a genius for doing that when I heard a documentary about me streaming from another motel room that faithful night. Initially, I was listening because I could hear them having sex. Then it turned into a voice over about my life, and interviews, I think Larry David said, The guy knows how to masturbate, but then they weren't having sex anymore and it was keeping me from masturbating, and I'll be damned, you know, no greasy slope's gonna—I had put so much effort into the planning, but then this fuckin' documentary was about me. I had caught two guys' voices' and a girl in the room, and that was so vulgar because it was really happening. They were doing those things. An old wealthy man in the line before me to get his room key was egging me on, holding up the line, and I couldn't move cause I was so horny—it was the Rapture—I'm pretty sure he was whispering to the clerk—the clerk is always tge owner—that he had taken my girlfriend to Boston. I know you've been there, and who else could he hinting at? So later I thought it could be him in some hedonistic escapade. He had an X6, and he had taken you to places like Boston, obviously. And I could believe it all I was so deranged and distant. I only knew you in that way now. These people, they must be low lives, real depraved too, and the girl, she's not respectable—I had my cup silently to the wall, who knows what they're capable of...
And I realized, Wait a minute, who cares if I'm just hearing things—they're right! I think they were making fun of me too, but the argument still worked. Then later in the show—I kept stopping the porn to find my channel, but I couldn't find it—they were talking about this time I went out to get food for me and my parents, but I didn't want to wait for the pizza, so I called them and told them the line was really long and they should eat at home, and I bought myself a sandwich there for the same price as the pizza and ate it before I got home. My folks wouldn't know. That one made me laugh. I don't ever laugh during playtime. Impossible! That's a long post down there, I'm not searching through it to insert this. It's a glorious rambling mountain!
babe, this is addressed to you
Sit down, I want to talk to you. I Hit a wall, again...yea, but I had you in my thoughts, you can bet—but that's neither here nor there. It's everything all at once, sure, but that's just to round out the playing fieild. I'm not sure what that means, either, but that's so you get the idea. It'll be vintage, drawn out, and once we're through with it—spontaneous, and fueled by a desperate unknowingness and purpose, like a big chunk of space filled with atoms, molecules, and what else? Stuff. Yea, and with other stuff. These posts occurr seldom now, and as such are unfortunate, the circumstances they carry; yet in between, there's a genuine spirit in these spaces that will remind me...you get what I'm saying right? They remind me of good things. But I'm sure you noticed, the walls are cleaner now that I don't get drunk and cuss you out. But nevermind that, we're not here to speak of progress. In fact, when I asked if we could speak, I knew I was going to ramble, and with it would be the strung-out insight, and in it this way it would come—the syntax, I expect to be a heavier holder to handle. I thought I'd speak of my general craziness for you; and I put it manner of factly, to present some of its edges with some clarity. Again, I suspect, or can only hope the language I toss you can hold on to; just put some water on the insanity and point out some occupying irregularities, imbedded in there, almost as so timeless, quiet, and heavy. Again, my best efforts may only be reaching tonight, but I tried to convey the atmosphere of it dwelling in there, for some time, in there some where, my craziness for you, yadda yadda yadda. At this point, I'd like to take a moment and acknowledge that we are at this point in the language, where we will continue with our path. We have the water hose, it's bent in the syntax, but we have a grasp on the mess, an understanding as to how to contain it. I guess this is where I speak...right? The hose, it shouldn't cause much in the way of exerted effort—I mean, we took it out for a purpose right, to water those plants, and now we can manage it—
I didn't want to ramble anymore. If you'll notice my sentences relaxed. Just another day at the job—for them, it's all a matter of following along the lines. Simple momentum and structure in the lines, and the words make the sentences. Guess I'm still rambling. I grasped this reality for a moment, of everything, of my conditions. It got me dejected and angry, this wrinkle in time he can't give it no credit, but mainly disconcerted—how can I be so hapless over irrational thoughts, when I I know they are irrational? I agree with the logic of it—I have no rebuttals or any inclination to state towards the opposite—so why then am I prone to some quick underlying bitterness? Surely it will point to a defect in me—you look, and I tell you you will find it—but why does the negative stuffthinkingness arise automatically? You'd think getting to a root cause would bolster the mind to not feel like a victim and to take the rationale out of that ugly sensation—you know, so it's exposed as the chaotic element it is— but what it boils down to, I can't think about you for too long because I'll have to brush up—well, we'll definitely make eye contact, it's such an immediate space, no way we won't—i'll brush up on thinking of you living your life. And we both know that's one of those intangible concepts to me, like space or our talks, it's always there, not necessarily brutal because it's weightless. Look, you're there, and I'm here, right? You're taking notes, you got your notepad, and we're examing what I have here. So I can only speak from my end. Jesus, how long is this thing? This is an intangible concept thing, initself, so many words, but it's all weightless. They're not heavy, they're too preoccupied. So what am I saying? Okay, something concrete, so I can wish you happiness, but I won't really mean it, not because I don't want you to be happy, but because it's too risky. I wouldn't know what to do; it's more natural to hold on to pieces of your life, nurture it as my body gets weak and skinny, then one day I can show it to you. Look, I've kept it for you—I'm frail now, gaunt and yellow—like a madman would say to a girl he's courting, only I know it's mad, but it's dull, listless, and heavy. I always wanted to apologize for calling you damaged goods, I feel like I was the damaged goods. I see it more clearly now, but I was so active in trying to break your spirit. What's so damaged about you if you're a strong person? I was always out there, the first in line, with shoes on, ready to clock in and break your spirit. But still you're a strong woman, and I didn't like your choices because you got pleasure out of it and it drove me crazy, so I had to call you damaged. I didn't like your free thinking one bit, cause that means you want to have sex! My blog used to be pink, I had called it, "To one, Loved" and it was all the nasty poems and rants about you. I was frequently hallucinating from too many ambien around that time, vodka and ambien, I don't know why, it was always unpleasant, and I remember I would be too fucked up to be sharp and hatefilled, so I would have characters that somehow permeated the page as I would make a post. Mable was one of the three. Are you still there? Good, it's better than asking you. This is really long. I was struggling with material latetly, just stagnant, and I guess I decided I rather not be angry and miserable just to stay sober. I didn't even try to see my part in the anger, because even with logic and reasoning—I know you like that sort of stuff—the logic soundand reasoning? heck yes there was, but people still sucked. So that's where I'm at now. And by my logic and threshold for emotional pain, things should start coming steadily again after I get rested. I don't honestly buy any of my excuses though. Try to figure out how to be more proactive, again; try to remind mysel I'm not special, and try to accept not being special, even with this kickass blog. Try not to think about you—that's what I meant by damaged goods. I've transgressed in my thoughts towards you, I messed up my brain. I didn't know how to deal with it, until I realized I was a genius and just accepted it. Of course, by that time, the patterns were embedded in my brain I think, and there wasn't much reason to seek out of it other than thinking it was a tactic my brain deployed against thoughts I couldn't handle. It's not really a first date topic. I don't know if you know, or figured it out, or what that makes me, in your eyes, or if everything is beyond repair. But each time I get some sobriety together—I keep hitting a wall at a month, my...woman who lives in this same world as me—real feelings come back, fear, resentments, the results of my actions, and it's easier to revert to my self-deprecating mechanism, my brain can take pleasure from it and take everything from me and I won't really care; I'm more equipped to accept that sickness and indulge it rather than to deal with any reality of your life. I know, but I don't know; last thing I need is new material. Besides, you know I wouldn't approve. Then I wouldn't approve, but I would have more material for my magic box. I've spent so many years thinking about you when you were young, I'm closer to a child towards you then as someone...well, I'll just say it—as a lover. We were lovers, you see. Are you blushing cause you're in front of others? Do you think I sound like Hannibal Lector, too? So all that time berating you—not my woman! I'd say—and I turned into more of a kid. But don't you think about that, because it makes me insecure to be less of a man—and this topic is bothering me because I start thinking of you as a woman...and that scares me, cause I'm so behind! And there you must be, taking the morning train, and you have that whole exciting life, and here I am, jerking off. So to top it off—I'm still not done drinking today, and the reason I bring that up, I figured I'd win like a nobel prize or a championship belt if I stayed sober and worked on my blog, but that didn't keep me sober, essentially I guess because I wanted to jerk off so I've been thinking if I was even staying sober for myself? I thought maybe when I go up there, I could ask them to make a couple beltbuckle podiums around the stage, and before I make my speech, I could climb the ropes on both sides and raisse the belt. I can bring my own, probably find it on ebay, I always wanted one of those foam wwf belts as a kid, there's not much you can do with it but wear it around, and then maybe they can make me a real one for the ceremony. I should remember to be gracious during my speech and not take jabs at people who have ignored me. But I'll wait the till end to decide who not to invite to the party; I could be in a good mood at the last minute, then I could walk out to the line and say okay you can come in. I'll probably just manage the line all night, I mean, they're not paying me, but it's okay I don't need money to decide who I don't want coming in. It might seem weird or crazy for me to still be on terms of endearment with you here—like babe, but how could I not? — but the real crazy stuff is the other thoughts. With the former, I can still remind my head there's a human being there that I can't see.
I'm not going to proof read this. This isn't like the last relapse piece. That one was really something. And the post was cool too.
I keep the last few posts up because i was struggling, and people can see and say, "oh look, you can tell he was really struggling that one week. He tried. Look at all those people he doesn't like, and them, saying those displeasing things to him"
- What, where? Where is that you said?
- Oh, it's over here.
- He be talking about somebody bothering him?
- Yea, it comes across right off the page, in a way only words do. He's a natural.
- Oh, I didn't catch that when I checked—
- Hey.
- Visted—visted his blog this morning. I was running late for work.
- Sounds like you could only check.
- Yea, but I'll do my regular evening follow through. Make sure I didn't gloss over anything—I know he doesn't like people not listening.
- Yea, he's got that fiery dichotomy in him. He'll talk, and you listen. But you better not speak—
- Cause he's not listening—
- Unless it's about him.
- Exactly.
- And that gives him his edge. He's got such a fresh sound.
- Cause all he hears are the sounds.
- Right. He's so vibrant, I think he's always working with what's around him, trying to pick up on the sounds that suit him.
- Yea, he's a natural at picking up compliments.
- He's got that X-factor, you know?
- Oh yea.
- But he doesn't need a tight shirt and tie.
- Oh, definitely, definitely.
- Why would he wear it if his body's got a conspiracy against him?
- He's not going to stand there looking like a chump, while some other chump got lucky and looks good in it.
- And you know what? I bet it hurts his feelings.
- Oh you don't want to hurt his feelings.
- He's not afraid to tell the truth, he'll just call it as he sees it—just walking by—and it'll be an observation. I don't know about you, but me, personally, I can't do it if I'm not sitting down.
- Oh, I need a table. Yep, you're right—The man was bothering him.
- Yea, it's right there.
- This is beautiful, we're hovering over his page—
- Like it's some World War Two pamphlet we discovered in the cold.
- And he'll just tell you, "This shit sucks. War is gay. But your wife might have sex if you die." I'm almost embarrassed to admit I missed it.
- Don't be; he complains a lot. It's a challenge trying to keep up.
- Oh man, someone should do something.
- To him? Like arrest him?
- No, not to him. They should hoist him over their shoulders and carry him some distance, then put him down.
- Yea, not arrest him.
- No, not arrest him. That other low life—he's a villain. You can smell it off him.
- Yea, I think he said he smells.
- Hey, you really do your follow-up in the evenings?
- Follow through.
- Yea, it's hard to follow up.
- I say the evenings, but I usually find some time to skip out on work, and get to it by 4.
- Yea, I'm the same way. I usually find a little hole in the corner, or make a hole in the wall and squeeze in there with my cell phone, it makes me feel like I'm watching porn.
- Yea, get you some feverishness for the day.
- Yea, but the boss thinks I'm a rabbit. though.
- Oh, he's got to. He sees all those holes in the wall—it's not like you're patching them up.
- Why, it's not like I'm masturbating in there.
- Yea...yea, but he's wonderful, though.
- Him, not my boss. He called me a rabbit. And one time I'm sure he said—
- Yea, I'd love to meet him...and not shake his hand.
- Yea, I'd love to meet him and not shake his hand, too.
- I can't believe it's Thursday. It was just Monday.
- Are you sure you weren't jacking off?
- That's a good one.
So basically I was painting a relapse, which is usually the case, but for authenticity it could be important in identifying trouble spots, responding stronger; but alas, I've failed to do more than identify them. And the way I just threw that in there, alas, it was so natural I could say, "Seven. What'cha know about Seven?" and it gives me the courage to incorporate the word into my verbal speak. The first time is going to be special. If I get my timing right, my eyes will light up. So instead of fun creative pieces—to put up the good fight—we end at this avenue again.
well they can't all be winners
How come nobody ever asks me for my autograph?
My friends don't know I'm a celebrity.
...and I think, if they find out, well...well I reckon they'll probably want an autograph, too.
Fuck these people, I'm just going to think about how cool my subconscious is.
im texting to a freakin invisible number at a bar...but im not drinking. the invisible number makes it look like im texting someone...but that allows me to think freely about my subconscious and not look weird!
all my clothes are from macy's. I hope someone doesn't notice
it wouldn't matter though, cause im so busy thinking about my subconscious
i can't tell if im unraveling or just getting through another day
im never going to talk to people again. they talk in subjects that displease me.
Never seen a nun driving before...she had one arm on the wheel. I gotta start walking more at nights since I can't run. People will probably see me, and think I'm humble. They'll want to tell their children, I imagine, and the children will wave at me.
I've been eating at supermarkets, local and big, a lot lately. I'll usually go to the deli section where you take a number and order your meat, but I'll go for the various salads, you know, a quarter pound chicken salad, a third brocolli salad, maybe qunoia or orzo, this time—I don't go into the decimals though. I try not to give them a hard time and take what they give me because I don't want their dirty looks. It makes my day interesting; I try to settle on a balance of what's healthy and appealing. Staring at my selection in the container, I'll realize I don't really want this one, but I'll picture having to tell the guy, and then I decide I do want it. I know there's mayonnaise in a lot of the salads, but you know, what's the point of torturing myself when I usually sabotage my day's effort at the end of the night anyway? I'm just going to try it all over again the next day. Sometimes when I write down despairing existential questions, I shake my head and make hand gestures to align with the physical question. It makes my day interesting. When I get my containers, I find a shady spot, a park, or under a tree in my slab, and enjoy my lunch. People walk by and sometimes I stop in the middle of eating to stare at them and they stare at me and we both stare at each other for a moment and they pass and I continue eating. When I see someone eating, I'm usually curious what the bloke has chosen, maybe make a mental note; and so, they may be curious as to what I selected. They can always ask. I wouldn't mind; I wouldn't eat their arm. Sometimes I want to inquiry if they recommend what they just tasted.
I don't know whose hand to shake and whom to kiss. General rule of thumb, if they're old, I go in for the real thing. Some 60 year old in-law from my great-aunt's side with Persian sideburns is not gonna care if I plant a couple on him. If it's a woman I don't recognize, Borat handshake, end of story.
I'm not going to fool around with the traditional hug—I have the tendency to screw it up. I don't want Sideburns realizing I'm kissing his ear as he's hugging me.
Gotta say bye to grandpa. I'm wearing his sweater. That Sheik Abu Khalid Mohammed undershirt was his, too. He was soft spoken, comical, and stubborn—fiercely independent. He was a good man.
He was so tall and stayed with his little green car all these years. He'd never admit all the little love dings he gave to parked cars.
He stole my beanie the other day when I went to visit him, my cashmere one. I took it off and noticed it had a couple holes. He heard me bemoaning the matter, I assumed it was from cigarette burns or moths in the summer heat of the closet. He looked over at me and said, It has holes in it? and put it over his big dome head. You don't need it anymore, he said. I've never heard him yell.
I keep editing this in the room. I didn't make the gym today and watched what I ate. I passed by a relative I didn't know on the floor earlier. This guy kind of looks like me, I better shake his hand. It would have been awkward if I hadn't. He walked into my grandpa's room, and we both started eating the spare crackers lying around the room.
Not much to report. I had a date. It was good. I might have another one. I'm not sure. I'm happy to be alive. The world is sad. So am I. I'm too lazy to go to the gym. If I don't go to the gym, I might keep eating my dates. I talk about food a lot, what I ate. I figure it'll pass, and I can talk about other things, someday, when I can get out into the world, maybe even go on a date. I don't want to think about people so much today. It just makes me sad. I like it better when they irritate me, for minor offenses, so I can see how petty I am, and I can make stupid jokes about broken body parts, and not look at what's really going on. I don't know much about politics, less about women—other than they're dictators—which reminds me, I think when someone lacks knowledge and education, and worse yet is also inherently dumb, it's easy to educate them in a specific manner, and their ego can run wild with it. They'll even be sincere in convincing you. Hatred and evil can result from that marriage, I'm not sure—but resentments are definitely in there.
Along those lines, I also think they hate women. I'm basing this on how my own views towards women scare me; I don't like it, sometimes I've caught it, but often I've indulged pure disdain, in matters I have no right to be a judge. Progress is a daily thing I can make only through small increments, when I realize how little of a man I am under those sensations. I can get bigger, real big
- Size of a boat
...when I see my defects and insecurities underneath those feelings. Those are mine, I can even love them in time. How dare I force my corrupted will on others.
I don't know, that's as deep as I can sound. I know that one line rhymed, I'm pretty insecure about that. Don't think about that, or else you're a slut.kk
some pictures
I remember how he did his art when I edit something, sitting in front of me at the Jack in the Box—someone was playing his boombox and everyone was easy—and on the ground of the parking lot by the room, under the sun. I was like, This guy's going to sit here and draw during all this?
- How's she doing?
- Better. She talked to me a little.
- How was her spirit?
- She told me she doesn't want me jerking off.
- She's so brave, always has been.
- Especially now that she's got to learn with the other hand.
- You guys will get through it, I'm sure.
- I know. She had just got her nails done, too. That hobo's probably showing off underneath the bridge for all his friends...
- I can go for some wine.
- I bet he's scratching his back right now... Did you send Tom to try and get that refund? It's the salon at the end of the mall.
- He went first thing in the afternoon.
- It's good he's making himself useful, Nancy.
- He could only get half, little brother.
- Those fish faces!
- You're better than that.
- No, I'm not.
- It's times like these when you need most to preserve your tolerance and compassion.
- What about their humanity? Didn't he explain what happened?
- He tried, but they couldn't understand him.
- So why'd they only give him half?
- They didn't actually give him half. You know Tom—he's always lying about money.
- So why'd you tell me he only got half?
- Cause he's my husband. I have to support him.
- Any news?
- We can't find it. They think a transient may have taken it.
- Oh, that's horrible. What would a homeless man do with a missing arm?
- Sell it...to a tire shop maybe.
- Or maybe eat it. God, I sure hope he's not eating it right now.
- That's my wife he's eating, Nancy.
- It's okay little brother, it's just one piece of her.
- I guess you're right; it does no good to think that way.
- No good at all, but you have the most important part.
- I know, her liver.
- No, her brain functions have to remember you... Well, are you going to click Post?
- Maybe in a little while. I want to sit here for awhile longer.
- Don't dwell on it. Come have dinner with me and Tom.
- Is that your cat?
- No, that's Tom-tom, silly. Come have dinner; he brought a pizza from home.
- One of those frozen pizzas you guys always shack up on?
- Oh, you know how cheap Tom is...but it's been microwaved. Here, look.
- Aww, he put it in for too long. The cheese looks past melted—it's going to taste like burnt skin, I just know it.
- Oh, I'm sorry.
- No, wait—I'm sorry.
- Tom-tom may have done this one.
- No, it's me. I'm just so irritated, sis. I didn't mean to take it out on you and Tom and the cat.
- You need some rest, brother.
- Have you eaten it yet?
- Tom's thinking about eating it, but I've had it for so long I don't think he wants to anymore.
- Maybe I'll go down to the cafeteria. I wonder if they have any tuna in a can.
- Here, I should have an opener in my purse. It smells a little like fish though.
- There's still some residue on it, Nancy. I can smell your cat.
- I'm a little flaky with cleaning it.
- I'll just ask the girl down there to open it.
- It helps to put some garnish on it. Or else Tom-tom won't go near it.
try and get some rest
I can't sleep. My life is uneventful. My life gets more uneventful when I just as soon fall asleep than think much more. I tried to take something to help with sleep—namely, this brown sugar and cinnamon pastry stick. It's 100 calories, forget about it. Just because my life isn't particularly exciting at the moment, I see no reason to get further blue with it, nor even to take it to heart and start questioning my existence. No one ever started thinking about how they can hang themselves just cause they had some free time to think while being bored. I mean, I could be reading...my life does essentially depend on it, right? Eh, I figure I'll be cheery come morn. I miss you. I was thinking about not having you in my life like a real person, and grasping it like a normal person, minus all the details that would conjure up, like you getting happy thinking about him. I'm trying to make myself a martyr, but it's difficult. Sometimes I call you a slut when I'm angry, but I'm just being resentful looking at my own life. It's probably my diet. I mean, babe I eat way more sugar than I let on. I mean, it's pretty embarrassing the state of deliciousness I uncover. God sometimes makes me eat more the next day, so I can apologize to you for calling you a slut. Usually though, I'm aware of how irrational my thinking has always been. Do you think you want to get happy thinking of me? Is that something you may be interested in? I know you're reading this—oh, what am I saying, of course you are! What I was doing before composing this little number was I was telling myself to try and get some rest as I turned the light off, but in a different mental voice, that of a concerned relative or close friend after going through some trying incident, or having spent the last twentysomething hours in the hospital. He knows that it's been tough on me, mentally and physically draining, and it's about my wife. She has been in an accident, and lost her arm in a collision with a semi-truck. We're just trying to take it all in. Of course, she's in the hospital, sedated, my sweetness, and he knows I have to get back to my home—I have to rest, he says. And I don't disagree. I'm so emotionally drained right now, because my wife, she just lost her arm; I have to be strong, for her, it flew into the bushes. Everyone's been so supportive. I can still hear the sound, it was like a defective boomerang. They just want me to go home, and try to get some rest in my lonely bed.
I mean, they don't have a blog!
My chess rating is rising.
I'm getting more impatient with Alan.
My pride is growing,
I remember people who would ignore me.
I'm starting to look better, (three car accidents I caused today*)
my fuckstick legs won't let me run more.
The cigarettes don't bother me.
I listen to Tool on the treadmill, Stinkfist,then Eulogy.
So I tried the bicycle machine, but left with contempt at the people using it. They were using it to watch TV. Look at you! I wanted to say to them, like Kramer. I was watching Seinfeld.
I don't pay attention to the guys that look better than me—their haircuts ain't got no soul. They watch MMA while they run. Why don't they just go on Youtube? People film other people getting knocked out on the street, and you can hear their laughs.
I watched a documentary on the Sugar Ray Leonard and Duran fight. That was cool. I didn't respect Duran after his post-victory speech. He said he was more of a man than his opponent. I get high and jerk off in motel rooms. Mike Tyson was so animated talking about that fight. I like Mike. I've always liked Mike. We're good friends. He reads my blog. I'm better than them because I prefer boxing—I don't care too much about boxing.
I look at the things I'm wont to do,
and I know it's not pride.
All those guys ever talk about is going to the gym! And girls, and food, probably fart, too. Protein farts. The gym smells. I hate their haircuts and grey hipshit sweatpants. Maybe I'll get one. See how it looks on me.
They all stare into their phones all the time—
I wonder if I'm trying to say boxing is more of an art than MMA, but mixed martial arts is an art too. I don't get along with the people I imagine people are.
The girls, too, they stare into their phones. They're not checking my blog. I ask them, they act like they don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. I grab it from them, see what's so important—it's just a text, I say to her. It's just a text, I repeat. It's got no literary merit—you're ordering turkey without mayo. That's not a poem! I say to her. Your turkey's not a poem. Here, let me do your texts!
After my workout, I had a protein shake, and a Weight Watchers Turkey dinner. About an hour later, I went to a diner and had a Thanksgiving dinner. Alan texted me. I got irritated, and figured he wants a cigarette. I didn't want to eat with him. He's on a diet, but won't exercise. He wants soup with nothing in it. I don't know what the hell that means. He can't explain. He'll keep staring.
After the meeting he said "What's next?" I told him curtly I'm going home. He disappeared without saying anything and walked home in the cold. I sat in my car for an hour. I texted him if he wanted a ride, but I knew I could have just got him down the block. He didn't respond. I don't know how he thinks. I don't know if I hurt him or he's using me. I'm not mature enough to act like his older brother. As long as I want to hang out, he'll stay with me.
Sometimes I think he's an actor.
Sometimes I think he's like my addictions.
*A few people just honked,
*A few people just honked,
and said, Keep it Up!
Some were with their families.
Their children waved at me.
You're my true addiction. It's not fair.
You're my true addiction. It's not fair.
Oh, well. At least I leave you alone, sort of.
Just don't laugh at me.
It displeases me.
anemia
hooker with a penis
anemia
hooker with a penis
I made a real good move, real smart.
- That's hot.
I bought a box of the these creamy chocolate vanilla filled wafer bites. There's 6 pouches in a box. Each pouch contains 100 goodness calories. Goodness calories do not exceed 100, and many report feeling, "good" about their experience; hence, the moniker. One person also reported, after his decision he felt, "real smart."
I place one pouch on display in the kitchen before I go to bed, pray, and fall into my nightly slumber and become an action star. Every night around 3-4 AM, I go down to the lobby and my mind speaks things—pretty straightforward it says, Chocolate, Chocolate. Tactically speaking, it's sound because the pouch sits at angle that'll intercept me just as I'm about to make the shirtless walk outside to the back of my truck, where on any given night, cookies reign. In the cold, one pack of those cookies will set me back two to three hundred calories, no doubt about it.
- If I had a doubt before, I don't have one now.
I had one cookie today while working. I had a suspicion about the batch's quality, so I opened one up to investigate. I went in for it. It tasted good, so I went ahead and ate it. I ate my profit—I ated it! Then I ate another one. The bag was already open, so I had to take care of his buddy, too. I gave them a good home, then I told the lady at my next store. This is what I told:
- Do you know what happened?
- No, because you're going to tell me right now.
- You must have heard.
- There is suspense in the air.
- I ate one of my cookies.
- You ate your profit?
- I ated it!
- And all you got to show for it are calories.
- Should we make out?
- Not unless you're dreaming.
- I wish.
- Yea, then you wouldn't have to dread those extra calories.
- It's a real life nightmare!
She laughed at me. She laughed me out of the store. I can still hear it. She was tall and had long black hair that sat over her head like a storm.
So anyway, I can just eat my pouch and be able to fall back into bed. I bypass the cold, I keep my profit—so in my sleep, I'm making money. But mainly, I cut out those extra calories, which is more baller than money. Yea, I usually eat about 3-4 of those pouches a night.
(listening to Blues Traveler - Hook)
I have to go home and eat more chocolate.
Still though, you know?
Still though, you know?
- Um-hmm.
Some mornings the impulse is there—quick, though. Not sustained. No, not sustained. Forget about it.
- Look, I can't remember, because when you said forget about it, I immediately did.
I'm not cured, by any means. Not by a long shot.
- A football field. Definitely, a field.
Maybe next week.
- You will be cured, on Tuesday.
Yet the impulse still remains...
- Like a tall man who sits down in his small vehicle.
A real tall man...that I wonder, what my life would be like if I were to check my stats today. I don't ever want to go back, and wrestle those irrational emotions.
- You can check your stats on February the 27th, where you will also be cured, but don't forget to buy the milk—oh, honey, your mom and dad really love you. We just want to see you wrestle a beast. Fifteen to twenty minutes is all we ask, before he goes back to the circus. And the neighbors are really excited. They want to see, too!
Are you excited? I know I am!
Are you going to be late for work, too? I got my Clamato Picante, my pork rinds—just gotta put on my jersey! I'm eating spicy foods because I heard women get turned on by guys who eat spicy foods. This guy down the street told me.
There's tomato juice dripping down Isco's head. Poor guy. He's good looking. Get back on the field, you bum!
Everyone on our team is good looking. We're a good looking team.
Isco's a real professional. He could've gone back to the dressing room and gone through the other guys' stuff, steal a money clip or Marcelo's necklace. But he pushed the medical staff guy back, and went back on the field. I caught his words. He said, Get off me, you bum!
Marcelo got subbed out early. Nacho came in for him, and quickly scored a goal out of nowhere. Marcelo's agent went back to the room to check on him. Marcelo says he's okay but to check Cristiano's locker. He liked the jeans he was wearing earlier.
The agent encourages him to try it on, see if it's a good fit. Let's have a better look by the mirror, he says. He looks Marcelo down, advises him to turn around, then nods sternly. Some slight alterations and it's a good fit. He'll phone the tailor and I am missing a great game where we're lucky not to have eaten three or four already.
Yet at halftime, we have a truly incredible scoreline...You said it, British sports guy.
2nd Half. Ronaldo appears walking out of the tunnel, noticeably upset. A man with scissors and yarn can be seen lurking in the shadows, then calmly proceeds to the dressing room.
Ronaldo cannot get his shot on target and the commentator notes CR7 looks, Visibly irked.
Many Real players are signaling to be subbed off.
Their agents line the field with a towel and a catalog magazine rolled underneath their arms. Some are jotting down pages periodically with a red marker they had placed above their ear.
Some hold the marker between their teeth while flipping through the pages.
Commentators highlight concerns that Ronaldo appears, A peripheral figure.
Ronaldo with a lazy, petulent pass on the break that fails to find his teammate.
And the scoreline somehow stays 1-0 for Real Madrid. And Ronaldo nervously runs back into the tunnel.
I don't much know how to deal with death. I just don't get it. I mean, how am I going to keep talking about myself if I'm dead?
I was flipping through channels recently, one of those crime dramas—when it definitely is TV—where the detectives are profiling the suspect. I gleaned that this episode revolved around a serial killer. He says to the other, the profiler to the detective, the suspect's biggest fear is death, not capture—he's a narcissist. When I was walking down the street to turn myself in, I had that issue on my mind. I don't know... it's taking me some time to compose this. It's a tough subject, I tend to look away from the screen into the lit area in my yard, real pensive and shit—I got this new pimple near my temple that every moment I'm essentially cultivating.
So I watched the show for a few more lines in case it was about me, then I got disinterested and changed the channel.
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