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Passed out when I got home from work today. Beat, I guess, from the futility of being spread too thin over too large an area. My neural processing got an overload from that, with the result being me serenading the TV baseball game with my snoring and labored breathing. Work-I feel as if I plan my life just like I plan the tasks at my job: call this person, fix that, clean that, eat something, take a break. Structured, rigid. And slowly losing the variable of new experiences and feelings. Am feeling tired now, like a car out of gas.
A little mountain surrealism today. Watched two male mallards, bright and beautiful in their iridescent hues, duking it out over a much more somber-colored lady duck. Watched the waves in the different substrates of the grass and the water, moving with the same sinuous motions, both caused by the same wind. Felt the dichotomy of the warm sun and the cold breeze on my skin at the same time. Felt that all the answers for all my burning questions were there in the dynamics of this alpine day, just waiting for my attention and interpretation. The mountain does that sometimes.
I missed this day, twenty-five days ago and a year younger. So, if you want context, then read this after 28. I've tried to cry, but there were no tears. There's nothing to fucking cry over, only deride. I'd go kick somebody's ass, but then I'd feel bad about it and ask them to kick mine in return. I'd fuck some chick, but then the emptiness of the unnamed lay just adds to my demise, my unfulfillment. The clothes tumble in the dryer, round and round, till they come out nice, warm, and clean. Fuck this hell that is life.
If I were dictator of the world, all you motherfuckers would be sent to a reeducation camp for manners and courtesy training. You would all know to say please and thank you when served with something. You would wait patiently in line. You would not interrupt another's conversation. You would open the door for women, and you would hold that door for anyone coming in after you. You'd keep your fucking mouth shut until spoken to, and when eating. You'd keep your finger out of your nose in public. And damnit, you'd put your trash in the fucking garbage can.
This month is the month of my birthday. Funny, it is, how the birthdays of my youth were focused on presents, and were looked forward to for those things. Now it's more of an emotional thing, somewhat of a marker of what I have become and achieved in the past year of an age. No longer do I look forward to the big day; I dread it. I wish I could put the brakes on time to keep me from that date, keep me from the inevitable review of what I've done, because I know what I've done isn't much.
I guess you could say that I'm a hopeless romantic, as I still have a fading hope that there is the one out there who's specially meant for me. I know this belief is illogical, unfounded, and very unlikely, but there's still the slightest possibility that there is the woman out there that will finally share with me that unspoken resonance of being I crave so much. That possibility keeps me in line, keeps me on top of my bills, keeps me loyal to family, because if that chance ever comes, then I have to be the man she deserves.
Of late, due to my new position, I have been thinking way, way too much about work. My days off, time at home, commute, every action and place, at one time or another, has seen thoughts of the job floating through my mind. This is a bad thing-I don't want to live work, especially when it's as trite as my own. So I try to find diversions, and one of the best I've found is this old surf CD I'd forgotten I'd had. Airy, smooth guitar, simple snare beats, and a peacefulness that pushes the work aside for a time.
I'm still truly alone in this world, that I know. I used to think it was because everybody else was a fucking asshole, and I was so mighty and pure that you peons didn't deserve an inkling of my time. Well, I was partly right-you fuckers ARE assholes, with little morals and less manners; but I'm an asshole too. And like chemistry, likes repel, so I bounced away from society. These days, with the exception of my perceptions, are little different. I rarely see my friends, lovers are far and few between, and all of my activities require my solitude.
In all my adventures outside, of all the times I have spent in dense chaparral and swampy wetlands and lush forests, I have run into rattlesnakes only once. My buddy Jamie and I were drunk, night fishing at a local lake, when I stumbled on a two-footer en route for more beer. I poked her with a stick; she didn't seem to mind, so we both went on our ways. However, the motherfucker that I stumbled onto today was much bigger and more potent; I should have thanked her when she rattled, or otherwise my hand would've been a balloon.
I'm a pathetic bastard, always talking about my shit-time for me to blab about someone else. Someone cool. Someone who deserves that something be said about them. Someone with a pure soul. Few people, unfortunately, come to my mind. This guy Matt that I worked with is an exception. He was a hard worker, personable, and a genuinely warm person: if he said he was glad to see you, he meant it and you felt it. Those kind of traits are enviable, rare, and precious. I'd say I hope he's doing well, but I know, I know that he is.
Went to a party down the street tonight. Recognized a lot of people I'd gone to high school with; was never really friends with any of them, but at least knew who they were. They were all decent fellas and chickies, accommodating enough, but I felt displaced. It was just the same old fucking party, LIKE high school, and redundancies just aren't stimulating enough to keep my interest anymore. In addition, I know I'm an insular person, and I keep my relationships as such-so, I never really do or express well in a group of people I don't really know.
Distant, a million miles away, I sit in the chair, in the water, with the wind fighting my static sitting force and the waves wetting my feet. Eyes closed-drifting, drifting into rivers of fragmented thoughts, dreams, and memories. The jays chirp, the water laps, and the wind gets pissed off enough to wake me up. Eyes open, but still far, far away-I look at the sun, at the lake, the trees and my hands. I am latent, glued to the ground by lack of will. I'm unshaven, my hair's in disarray, and still my mind wanders. It doesn't come back.
You know, all this technology bullshit is delusional in its image of making things easier. Ease...I remember when the car was running rough, you'd get out with your screwdriver and feeler gauge for five minutes and adjust the points. Now, you have to take the jalopy to some dealer and his computer for two days and four hundred bucks. I now wait for my computer to load all these programs, type, and finally print a document, instead of going to the source with a pencil and sheet of paper. Technology doesn't make things easier, it makes you latent and unknowing.
Each new day the path I forge veers further and further from those I care about. The messages wait, unheard, on my cell phone and answering machine. The e-mails languish in cyber purgatory, unread. And my skin darkens, my hair becomes ruffled, the sun sets, and I do that which I do best, and I feel like I've fulfilled a tiny part of my destiny. All my work, all my studying, all my thoughts finally actualized, made tangible, proven right and sound by the real world. And I stand alone, in the darkness, and finally feel a sliver of harmony.
I'm running out of things to say, so I think I just might have to discontinue my fine 100 words after this month. I mean, shit, if there's nothing new really to say, then what is the point of it anyway? Life itself is repetition, is a cycle, so if I've described everything in my life once, then I have essentially described the form of everything in my life of past and future. So, after this month, fuck it-I'll waste the last five minutes of my night brushing my teeth or doing the laundry or catching up on my reading.
His middle finger was waving grandly in the air, as I could see from my rear-view mirror. Pissed off at me, he was, for passing him on a two-lane road where it's legal to pass. Did it hurt his feelings? Did he feel his machismo punctured because someone was driving faster than him? Was he the Judge of the Road, determining who drives well and who doesn't? I don't know or care, but all you stupid motherfuckers that get pissed off at how other people drive need to worry about something more important than a gauge on a goddamn dashboard.
You were cute, that I admit. Long, shapely legs, smooth, well-proportioned face, firm tits, that solid ass, you're smokin' indeed. You knew it, you carried yourself like you were queen of the world, and you had a right. But I didn't respect you like royalty-I simply wanted to fuck you, fuck you long and hard, and use you as a trophy for my own masculinity. You see, you carried yourself as queen of hot ass, not of hot WOMEN, so hot ass is how you got treated. And that hot ass is fleeting, honey, so savor it while it lasts.
I will start out this day right, I will not falter under the weight of the pressures of survival in modern society. I will walk the straight line, I will race towards my goals and never look back, I will make my family's name proud and worth its weight in gold. I won't tolerate the petty complaints, I will not tolerate the stupid mistakes and empty promises, I will not tolerate inaction. I refuse to let my work be interrupted by inefficiency and ineffectiveness, I refuse to submit to the cheap, fleeting scores, and I refuse the easy way out.
My head hasn't pounded like this for awhile-I guess it was the red wine. Nonetheless, with this screaming headache, I dreaded to get out of bed. Yet, here I am. My clothes are strewn on the floor, and my bed was empty except for myself this morning-I guess that chick I met last night had other ideas about what the night would entail. It was the right choice-I merely wanted to fuck her, and though I would've been honest and told her so, I doubt she would've appreciated my earnestness. Few people really have, and I understand and accept that.
I feel myself slipping today, attached to a bungee cord with an elasticity that has reached its furthest stretch, and that has now begun to pull back with gusto. Another fucking wasted day to the hangover, another wasted jerk-off session in the hot shower, another wasted hundred bucks to forgotten nights and forgotten dreams. I should've admitted long ago that this was the life I was meant for, but the acceptance of living so close to the edge scares me into thinking otherwise. But what is otherwise loses its strength when faced with the debasement and disappointment in the mirror.
I hear the birds chirp, I see the puffy clouds in the blue blue sky, and I smell the sweet fragrance of the forest after a good rain. A nice setting for a nice day and a nice life, but I sit here confused and indecisive. I recoil into my dark, cold room, where the sun's beams can't come in to light up the defects of my character. I refuse the phone its yelling to be picked up, I refuse to respond to the e-mails, I refuse this day for the love of decay. That had a nice ring, eh?
I once read in a magazine somewhere about the possibility of being in two spaces at one time. These spaces were defined by the choices we make in life-sort of like turning right instead of left at an intersection; in one circumstance, you might be killed, whereas in the other, you drive away happy and free. I believe in this possibility of duality, and I'm curious as to what my life would be like today if I had made choice B instead of choice A. Perhaps more so, what I'd have to do to intersect with that choice B life.
I was close to you again today, and it made me calm and contented. Though I've been seeing you regularly now for the first time in years, this last week I forgot about the commitment I made to you. I let the trials of work and relationships interfere with our intimacy. Lost ya for a little bit-but found you again today. Comfortable, like a warm, soft blanket on a cold, snowy night, you are my blanket that makes everything seem so much brighter and right. You give me the feeling that I am whole and healthy inside. Thanks aren't enough...
My life is a war, and this body is its battlefield. I'm clothed in a haze of fragmented memories and recurring blackouts. My self-expectations and desires are created by those with stronger characters than my own. My frustration never dies, my frustration with my fucked-up, weak actions, never dies. I am endlessly in love with the instant pleasure. For my mother's sake, it's probably a good idea I don't own a gun. I would unfortunately be my own best hunter. And hunting season is always just around the corner. What the fuck else can I say to this fucking screen?
I guess I'll just fucking do whatever you want me to. And what you want, unfortunately, is bad for me. See, this really isn't me-this is that which you have created. And I'm tired of being your fucking canvas, I'm tired of being painted by hands other than my own. I'm just plain fucking tired-I beat my head into the brick wall instead of climbing over it, and then I beat my head into the wall again. You helped put that wall there, fucker-and I, stupidly, let you do it. My head can hit that wall no longer-it is over.
I wish I could run, run forever and far away, where I'd never be known, recognized, or noticed. I tried running once-I ran for eight weeks, eight weeks into the deterioration of my personality and body. I thought I had left that deterioration behind-I was wrong. I'm wrong a lot, you know. That fucking decay is always there, always waiting for the best moment to actualize its wrath. And it scares me, so I dream about running away to another time and space where I'd never have to see my face. My legs, like my soul and will, are broken.
It is dark out-the birds have finally closed their fucking beaks. Called in sick to work today-told them it was a stomach thing, not the head thing like it really is. I can't fucking sleep-I am constantly harried by the questions of how the fuck I got here, and what the fuck happened to me. My stomach IS hurting, however-the last two days, I've felt seconds away from vomiting. My energy is at nil, and I just don't fucking give a shit anymore. I don't know if I have the strength to want to give a shit anymore. Who cares?
This house is clean, I've balanced my accounts, and I don't know if I'll have a job tomorrow. Don't know much of anything, really, except that don't think I'll ever beat this archaic impulse, this ingrained detonator of apathy. Funny, how beautiful it is outside, with the pines green, a light, warm southern wind, those same birds I lambasted before singing songs so soothing, and here I languish, questioning the value I give to this world. Just another drunk piece of shit, and what the fuck good does another drunk piece of shit give to this world? Find out tomorrow.
Well, I didn't get fired yet. It seems that maybe my utility when I'm present exceeds any, um, well, attendance problems I may have. Or, maybe my boss just didn't have the time yet to take care of me properly. Either way, I was honest, and wrote up a disciplinary action on myself-I mean, shit, if I can't hold myself accountable, how the hell can I keep any of my employees accountable? Aside from that, a sound suggestion to all of you-unless you want your ice water to taste like mackerel, keep your fucking ice trays away from stinky fish.
You know, most chumps get pissed as shit when they sit down to do their bills. Me, I don't mind a bit-in fact, I kinda enjoy it. Now, not the actual fact that I'm giving my cash to these bloodsucking energy providers and shitty communications companies, but the fact that I made it, that I worked and scratched and clawed and survived enough to end up on the plus side of my checking account. That, my friends, is the surest sign of responsibility. And damnit, tonight I was both responsible AND timely. I guess it's time for some mackerel water.
Well, I made it through this month-barely, and its conflicts and issues weren't that extreme or difficult, I have just become less capable at dealing with them efficiently. Next month will be harder, that I know-my boss is leaving (which will leave me part of his responsibilities), this next work week will be the hardest of the year, I have to find a new abode for August, then another in June, I have to go to Colorado for a week, and, old as I am, I start school on the seventeenth. And you won't know what happens at all ...100.
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