This morning I sat on the crapper and took a wide and massive shit. It hurt and it tore at my hemorrhoids and caused them to bleed. This all happened while I read an old paperback that had warped from the steam of many showers. My cat jumped onto the sink and licked at the trickle of water dripping from the head. I looked at the blood and the turd in the toilet bowl from between my legs. I craned my neck a few inches beyond my cock and widened my legs a bit and I could see the mess. I felt like throwing up. Not because my own bloody feces makes me sick, but waking up makes me sick. The shit, itself, felt great and it felt like a true accomplishment. I haven't felt that way in awhile. I put the paperback down and stood up. While the cat licked at the dripping faucet, I coughed and then vomited a bit of bile. It sat a tiny bubbly scab on top of the thick streams of blood that hovered around the massive turd. Those thick streams of blood were falling slowly and gracefully down into the bottom of the porcelain. I belched twice and threw up a bit more bile. Tears welled up in my eyes and I felt like a new man. I felt refreshed. More refreshed than after taking a hundred showers after a dirty lay.
I sat back down and picked up the paperback. I read two pages and then called it quits. I tore at some tissue and while feeling the pain in my sprained ass-wiping wrist, I cleaned up.
The night before I met a lot of people and read a lot of news articles. I had some conversations that I mostly forgot.
I flushed the toilet. The cat followed me out of the bathroom. While I poured a drink I watched the cat climb into his litter box and shit.
"This is all we got, cat," I raised my glass, "that reminds us that we're alive."
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Fucking Sleep
I could easily go to sleep. I'm fucking tired, beat to shit. I barely slept last night. Had coffee with cheap Bailey's knock off before getting to work at 11:00. Ate some fried chicken. Drank four pints of Guinness and now putting down some vodka. I can't read, I can't write. I can't do shit but I don't want to go to bed. Too cold to walk around. I'm yawning so hard that when I shut my mouth I think I'm seeing something. Some apiration, who knows what the fuck. I should sleep. I need to do things tomorrow. You know, THINGS. Fuck. Life is made up of so many pointless THINGS. Sleeping and eating both seem like useless wastes of time. Yet drinking does not. Fuck it. It's gonna be another pass out night, no matter what I want.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
That Time In California
I don't know why I remember it so much or in such detail. A period in time when nothing was really going on in my life. I was single and visiting a friend in California. But that was the time that all this emo-core and metal-core and emo-metal-core came out. The songs I guess were interesting back then and I'm listening to them now and I remember that time. Young(er), single, just a free bartender...
I Fuckin Know It
I should be writing right now (this is not the kind of writing I'm talking about). I should be doing something right now. Something. Something significant, important, real....fuck it. I'm polishing off a 1.75 litre of Jim Beam and listening to old metal records while the girlfriend sleeps. I should go to bed, get up early and work out. Instead I drink and work out my liver and body in a whole different way. Stretch it until it dies. No improvement. Just endure the pain, create more pain and satiate it while digging the grave.
More Sleeplessness
Fuck this shit. I just can't sleep. Or don't want to. Don't know. Drinking bourbon hoping to pass out.
Problems, problems. Whatever.
Problems, problems. Whatever.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Fishing In Lake Blood
Cast the lure
Cast the cast
The same old group of disbelievers
On a boat
Full of beer
And worms
This lake was a city
Now it's a puddle
In the eye of a satellite
A muck
And the leaders
Are standing on their toes
On the tops of anthills
Slowing soaking up
Up
And the ants are
Running into space
Between the toenail
And the skin
And digging
Like they did
Dirt
Into the bodies
Of the leaders
Crawling inside
The calves
Up to the knees
Into the thighs
Up the spine
And into the brain
And they say
"Stop"
And they say
"fuck you, we had it good
until you arrived"
And the blood
Of Lake Blood
Rose
And the ants crawled into
The scalps
And the scalps rotted off the
Tops of the heads
Of those that thought
They were still in power
And became flotation devices
And the ants sailed on
And the fish choked
Because the blood
Was too full
Of toxins
Eventually
Even the ants died
Off
And the Earth
Once a blue planet
Was as red as mars
As red as the lightbulb
That blinked
"Under Attack"
Cast the cast
The same old group of disbelievers
On a boat
Full of beer
And worms
This lake was a city
Now it's a puddle
In the eye of a satellite
A muck
And the leaders
Are standing on their toes
On the tops of anthills
Slowing soaking up
Up
And the ants are
Running into space
Between the toenail
And the skin
And digging
Like they did
Dirt
Into the bodies
Of the leaders
Crawling inside
The calves
Up to the knees
Into the thighs
Up the spine
And into the brain
And they say
"Stop"
And they say
"fuck you, we had it good
until you arrived"
And the blood
Of Lake Blood
Rose
And the ants crawled into
The scalps
And the scalps rotted off the
Tops of the heads
Of those that thought
They were still in power
And became flotation devices
And the ants sailed on
And the fish choked
Because the blood
Was too full
Of toxins
Eventually
Even the ants died
Off
And the Earth
Once a blue planet
Was as red as mars
As red as the lightbulb
That blinked
"Under Attack"
Monday, September 22, 2008
Happy, With Friends And Lovers Part 2
There was no one in the bar. I sat in a barstool, falling asleep when this couple walked in. They sat at the bar which meant I had to get up and walk behind the bar. They ordered a couple glasses of wine and talked. The guy asked me about places to go in Chicago. I asked him if he's ever been here before or was familiar at all with the terrain.
"Well we live in DeKalb, today is our 6 year wedding anniversary so we thought we'd spend the night downtown to celebrate. We've been here before but it's been some time."
As they drank and I caught glimpses of late season baseball scores from the TV I began rattling off basic places to go. They laughed and held hands and we all talked and they were stoked to be downtown, a place I can't seem to escape. They paid the bill and went to dinner and to explore some of my suggestions.
Five hours later they stumble into the bar. The guy sits down in the only available seat at the bar.
"Wine, sauvignon blanc, and give her one if she wants it..." the dude looks pissed. I pour two glasses of wine. The guy watches the tv and the girl keeps asking "what the fuck, what the fuck is your problem?"
"What the fuck do you mean?" he almost yells. He's drunk but still slightly aware of his surroundings. "You went for a cigarette while I was being serenaded by the band. I was being toasted to having been married for six years while you were outside smoking and talking to some guy."
"I didn't know they were going to sing and why wouldn't they wait until we were both at the table?"
"Fuck you," he said, "you just decided to smoke at that time."
"Oh yeah, " she said, "I was waiting for just that moment, that I didn't know was coming, to go out and smoke."
"You don't smoke!" he yelled.
"Sometimes I do!" she yelled back.
"Yeah, when? When some guy offers you one? Every time a guy offers you one? What do you do when they offer you dick?"
He slugged back his wine and asked for another glass as if I haven't heard his whole conversation. I try to block that shit out but sometimes because the bar is so small, it's hard to.
She doesn't say anything. She can't, she's drunk too.
"I just wanted us to have a good time and all you wanted was a smoke."
"Yeah, I've been planning to smoke at that minute for months. Fuck me for having a cigarette. Fuck you for drinking so much!"
"Let's go upstairs," he says and then signals for the bill and signs it.
"I left you ten bucks, hope you can read it," he says to me then goes upstairs.
'Why can't someone show the highlights to the 49ers game, damnit!" a woman in the corner of the bar screamed.
"Well we live in DeKalb, today is our 6 year wedding anniversary so we thought we'd spend the night downtown to celebrate. We've been here before but it's been some time."
As they drank and I caught glimpses of late season baseball scores from the TV I began rattling off basic places to go. They laughed and held hands and we all talked and they were stoked to be downtown, a place I can't seem to escape. They paid the bill and went to dinner and to explore some of my suggestions.
Five hours later they stumble into the bar. The guy sits down in the only available seat at the bar.
"Wine, sauvignon blanc, and give her one if she wants it..." the dude looks pissed. I pour two glasses of wine. The guy watches the tv and the girl keeps asking "what the fuck, what the fuck is your problem?"
"What the fuck do you mean?" he almost yells. He's drunk but still slightly aware of his surroundings. "You went for a cigarette while I was being serenaded by the band. I was being toasted to having been married for six years while you were outside smoking and talking to some guy."
"I didn't know they were going to sing and why wouldn't they wait until we were both at the table?"
"Fuck you," he said, "you just decided to smoke at that time."
"Oh yeah, " she said, "I was waiting for just that moment, that I didn't know was coming, to go out and smoke."
"You don't smoke!" he yelled.
"Sometimes I do!" she yelled back.
"Yeah, when? When some guy offers you one? Every time a guy offers you one? What do you do when they offer you dick?"
He slugged back his wine and asked for another glass as if I haven't heard his whole conversation. I try to block that shit out but sometimes because the bar is so small, it's hard to.
She doesn't say anything. She can't, she's drunk too.
"I just wanted us to have a good time and all you wanted was a smoke."
"Yeah, I've been planning to smoke at that minute for months. Fuck me for having a cigarette. Fuck you for drinking so much!"
"Let's go upstairs," he says and then signals for the bill and signs it.
"I left you ten bucks, hope you can read it," he says to me then goes upstairs.
'Why can't someone show the highlights to the 49ers game, damnit!" a woman in the corner of the bar screamed.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Happy, With Friends And Lovers
I'm behind the bar, working hand over fist. Pouring and charging, pouring and charging. Cleaning up broken glass from a spilled drink, talking, jiving, collecting, producing receipts, documents of a night no one wants to remember.
This couple stands at the side of the bar. I'm pouring a rum and coke for a drunk girl who hung out in Wrigleyville all day and I address the couple..."what can I get for you?"
"Fucking Miller Lite," the guy says, his meekish girlfriend squeaks out "baileys on ice." I nod my head, pour the drinks and the two run to the back of the room. A few seats are vacated at the bar and the guy and his girl sit in them. The dude looks pissed so I ask him if he's had a rough night. He looks at me like I'm an asshole "well, fuck, I just got back from my best friends wedding and his bitch cunt new wife owns him now and I'll never see him again."
"Fuck,"I say, honestly, I don't care. He's pissy. His woman joins him at the bar. She smiles uncomfortably because she knows that this man is drunk and unreasonable. He keeps texting his friend, the groom "fuck you, asshole, have a nice life." He keeps repeating himself. "Asshole, Charlie, he doesn't give a fuck. Why was he mad at me, I called his sister a fucking cunt, so what. We're friends. That bitch IS a cunt!" He says shit like this over and over.
The woman suggests they go to their room. This guy is an asshole and he doesn't deserve a blowjob but she'll probably suck his dick just to shut him up. I'd put a knife to his throat, but that's just me.
This couple stands at the side of the bar. I'm pouring a rum and coke for a drunk girl who hung out in Wrigleyville all day and I address the couple..."what can I get for you?"
"Fucking Miller Lite," the guy says, his meekish girlfriend squeaks out "baileys on ice." I nod my head, pour the drinks and the two run to the back of the room. A few seats are vacated at the bar and the guy and his girl sit in them. The dude looks pissed so I ask him if he's had a rough night. He looks at me like I'm an asshole "well, fuck, I just got back from my best friends wedding and his bitch cunt new wife owns him now and I'll never see him again."
"Fuck,"I say, honestly, I don't care. He's pissy. His woman joins him at the bar. She smiles uncomfortably because she knows that this man is drunk and unreasonable. He keeps texting his friend, the groom "fuck you, asshole, have a nice life." He keeps repeating himself. "Asshole, Charlie, he doesn't give a fuck. Why was he mad at me, I called his sister a fucking cunt, so what. We're friends. That bitch IS a cunt!" He says shit like this over and over.
The woman suggests they go to their room. This guy is an asshole and he doesn't deserve a blowjob but she'll probably suck his dick just to shut him up. I'd put a knife to his throat, but that's just me.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Fuck all y'all
NOTE:
I don't know where I was going with this one. Somehow I manage to save these late night rants and not post them. I'm guessing I'm thinking that I'll write something remarkable later based on what's here. I....fall quite short this time and don't know what I was going to write.
I'm just going to make a quick comment here. I'll get back to the dirty streets and whores, donut-eaters and drunks, cops, drunk sex and bullshit in my next posting.
All I want to say, is that i
I don't know where I was going with this one. Somehow I manage to save these late night rants and not post them. I'm guessing I'm thinking that I'll write something remarkable later based on what's here. I....fall quite short this time and don't know what I was going to write.
I'm just going to make a quick comment here. I'll get back to the dirty streets and whores, donut-eaters and drunks, cops, drunk sex and bullshit in my next posting.
All I want to say, is that i
Friday, September 5, 2008
The end...
I don't know anymore. I never knew. I'm more confused than ever. I'm not confused at all. Everything is clear. I'm a depressed mope...I watch the news channels and surf the web looking for brighter days. Fuck it. I put the books down and hit the "channel up" button hoping to see a burning mushroom cloud. All I'm doing is burning and waiting to be taken over by flames.
Fuck me, I'll wash the dishes, pointlessly.
Fuck me, I'll wash the dishes, pointlessly.
McShit and Shaved Pussy, Guns And Racists Can All Suck My Cock
NOTE:
Every once in awhile I can fly off the handle on "hot political topics" or even on "nothing". In this case I was drunk when I wrote this entry. I am drinking right now and have decided to just post this late-night horse shit entry. I know that it sucks and is juvenile but you know what? I don't give a fuck. There are a few messages in here that may be worth examining, mostly, it's just me being a drunk fucking cock.
I will tell you this: I am sick of the fucking South, the fucking bible thumpers, the fucking Jesus-freaks, the fucking republicans and all of the fucking motherfucking cocksuckers that think they understand the world better than anyone else. You bake apple pies while your priest molests a young boy and then you scream at a young girl for getting pregnant by your husband and now that girl is going to have a baby and now the question is....who will take care of that baby? That baby is officially "hot potato". You high and mighty Southern bible church going fucks. You're all asking "Do we support this baby? Out of wedlock?" You demonize it!! From the second it is born. You backward fucks. There is a reason we put nuclear reactors and missile silos in your town.
PICK UP A FUCKING BOOK....oh, you'll just burn it...."it's got werz! Werdz, Mama!, Probably the Devil's "Words".
Well let me tell you, you screen-door, world-fearing, gun- toting fucks:
We hate you. There are more people in the cities of this country than in your dick-centered "villages". And you think that because you can kill a deer with a twelve-gauge, well, that makes you powerful.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, John McCain and your irrelevant pussy Palin. Together you will look at America and turn it into shit. John, you know you just want to go to war. And Sarah, you're just a manipulated cunt and proud of it. You are a do nothing bitch. You're like the reason I hold onto my job, I don't have to do anything. You think you do something, you self-important cunt, you do nothing. Actually, I would respect you if you decided to not become a pawn of the republican machine. No matter what McCain says, the vortex is there and once you pledge your allegiance, your dignity is sucked away.
Ladies, woman, girls, females, anything with ovaries... don't listen to this gun-toting bitch.
Hey, Killidelphia! Hey West Side and South side of Chicago! Hey South Central LA! Hey NY! Just to call up a few...some Governor from Alaska wants to say: GUNS FOR ALL!!!!!
Thanks, bitch, thanks, Republicans, assholes, fuck-centers.
Now let's drop them, via helicopter, onto the West Side of Chicago where just over the past 10 months more than 36 children were killed and the number of people shot over the age of 18 has yet to be calculated...(it's over 100, folks! Still counting the innocent bodies shot in their houses!)
Gun rights...you fucking dicks...is there any chance that you'll get a clue as to why someone might want to regulate guns? Now, shit, I'm all for gun rights but please, assholes understand that some new rules need to be put into place. Do you find it acceptable that some 9 year old gets on a public bus and while trying to shoot another nine year old ends up killing three adults and two children (not the targets)just trying to go to school and work? Is that OKAY? Guns for EVERYONE!!!! Shoot!!!
And all you white trash hunter fucks. Put on your camo-wear and walk into the city streets, shit, you thought your daddy's dick stretched your asshole, get ready for some real pain without the pleasure.
Assholes in the South, The Beltway, the assholes that call themselves Christians while shooting guns, drinking beer, fucking their sisters and using their tooth brushes to scrub the mud out of their assholes. Ignorant churches, backwards ideologists and flat out "Good 'Ol Boys". All of you are the ones keeping this country from prospering.
You can't keep your religion in your homes, in pants nor in your churches. No, you have to try to impose it on the rest of the country and world. You can't open your minds. You vote for the perseverance of life, and then damn an underaged girl for having a child unless she is the child of Sarah Palin or some other Christian phoney. As long as they're in the lime-light, you will support them. But if some poor girl in your community or EVEN WORSE some MINORITY girl becomes pregnant then all hell comes loose and those little tarts are damned to hell!!!!!! But the Palin kid, oh, she's a good girl, fucking some asshole high school punk and getting pregnant. But we hate Brittney Spears' sister! That girl had a daughter because she had bad parents! But Palin's daughter? She should be embraced!! Why? Why not? We're a confused republican party!! We don't know anything anymore!!! We FUCKING SUCK!!!
Fine, guns in your world make sense. You hunt and kill and eat your hunt. But we're not all cowboys and small-town folk. And we don't all fuck our family tree and take pride in tooth-decay. And when the non-educated have babies, they stick them in garbage cans and then collect food stamps. And somehow you have the right to vote when you should be vaporized!!!??!!!
We live in cities and in suburbs of cities where kids get guns and don't have the guidance of good parents to teach them how to use guns and the discipline to use a gun. Here in the city, a junkie can get a gun by sucking a dick, and then get the ammo by sucking another dick. And then he takes that gun and shoots the clerk of 7-11 and robs the bank and buys another gun and some drugs and then sells the drugs and DO YOU SEE THE CYCLE?!?!
Now if you cowboys want to enlist as city cops, please do, since you like shooting your guns.
Now come to the South Side of Chicago and look at all the children that have been shot. You probably won't give a fuck...you'll just jump on a bull and ride it. You'll secretly say "nigger kid should never have been born anyway." See how I can demonize you assholes? You sick fucks. Damn you for saying that and for being such racist fucks. The sad thing is is that so much of this country still thinks this way. It's sad and really it scares me that people are so out of motherfucking touch.
But maybe not everyone.
Prove me wrong, assholes. Can you see where the problem with guns exists? You want to form the law in your safe little towns, but hey, a lot of us live in actual cities and we don't want everyone armed. In a place where there is a bar every 10 feet. Where there are guns and racists.
Our cities of America don't need guns.
And we sure as shit don't need you God-fuckers telling the rest of us our rights as per your bible.
I studied that fucking book for 15 years and honestly, there is a lot of truth and good value there. But most of the cock-sucking world refuses to actually read it as though it should be read.
And when I say the "cock-sucking world"I suppose I mean all you ignorant fucks that suck Bill O'Reilly's dick or just base your life on some dumb e-mails and postings.
FUCK YOU ALL.
And for those who read this, my guess is no one...but just in case, I'm trying to make a goddamned point. About the sickness of this country. About the bullshit, the ignorance, the lies and the misfortune. Before you come after me, if you decided to come after me, first stick your finger down your throat and stare at your face in the reflection of your vomit.
Most likely, you're worth nothing more.
And to calculate how much less you're worth...fuck...start digging your grave.
Every once in awhile I can fly off the handle on "hot political topics" or even on "nothing". In this case I was drunk when I wrote this entry. I am drinking right now and have decided to just post this late-night horse shit entry. I know that it sucks and is juvenile but you know what? I don't give a fuck. There are a few messages in here that may be worth examining, mostly, it's just me being a drunk fucking cock.
I will tell you this: I am sick of the fucking South, the fucking bible thumpers, the fucking Jesus-freaks, the fucking republicans and all of the fucking motherfucking cocksuckers that think they understand the world better than anyone else. You bake apple pies while your priest molests a young boy and then you scream at a young girl for getting pregnant by your husband and now that girl is going to have a baby and now the question is....who will take care of that baby? That baby is officially "hot potato". You high and mighty Southern bible church going fucks. You're all asking "Do we support this baby? Out of wedlock?" You demonize it!! From the second it is born. You backward fucks. There is a reason we put nuclear reactors and missile silos in your town.
PICK UP A FUCKING BOOK....oh, you'll just burn it...."it's got werz! Werdz, Mama!, Probably the Devil's "Words".
Well let me tell you, you screen-door, world-fearing, gun- toting fucks:
We hate you. There are more people in the cities of this country than in your dick-centered "villages". And you think that because you can kill a deer with a twelve-gauge, well, that makes you powerful.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, John McCain and your irrelevant pussy Palin. Together you will look at America and turn it into shit. John, you know you just want to go to war. And Sarah, you're just a manipulated cunt and proud of it. You are a do nothing bitch. You're like the reason I hold onto my job, I don't have to do anything. You think you do something, you self-important cunt, you do nothing. Actually, I would respect you if you decided to not become a pawn of the republican machine. No matter what McCain says, the vortex is there and once you pledge your allegiance, your dignity is sucked away.
Ladies, woman, girls, females, anything with ovaries... don't listen to this gun-toting bitch.
Hey, Killidelphia! Hey West Side and South side of Chicago! Hey South Central LA! Hey NY! Just to call up a few...some Governor from Alaska wants to say: GUNS FOR ALL!!!!!
Thanks, bitch, thanks, Republicans, assholes, fuck-centers.
Now let's drop them, via helicopter, onto the West Side of Chicago where just over the past 10 months more than 36 children were killed and the number of people shot over the age of 18 has yet to be calculated...(it's over 100, folks! Still counting the innocent bodies shot in their houses!)
Gun rights...you fucking dicks...is there any chance that you'll get a clue as to why someone might want to regulate guns? Now, shit, I'm all for gun rights but please, assholes understand that some new rules need to be put into place. Do you find it acceptable that some 9 year old gets on a public bus and while trying to shoot another nine year old ends up killing three adults and two children (not the targets)just trying to go to school and work? Is that OKAY? Guns for EVERYONE!!!! Shoot!!!
And all you white trash hunter fucks. Put on your camo-wear and walk into the city streets, shit, you thought your daddy's dick stretched your asshole, get ready for some real pain without the pleasure.
Assholes in the South, The Beltway, the assholes that call themselves Christians while shooting guns, drinking beer, fucking their sisters and using their tooth brushes to scrub the mud out of their assholes. Ignorant churches, backwards ideologists and flat out "Good 'Ol Boys". All of you are the ones keeping this country from prospering.
You can't keep your religion in your homes, in pants nor in your churches. No, you have to try to impose it on the rest of the country and world. You can't open your minds. You vote for the perseverance of life, and then damn an underaged girl for having a child unless she is the child of Sarah Palin or some other Christian phoney. As long as they're in the lime-light, you will support them. But if some poor girl in your community or EVEN WORSE some MINORITY girl becomes pregnant then all hell comes loose and those little tarts are damned to hell!!!!!! But the Palin kid, oh, she's a good girl, fucking some asshole high school punk and getting pregnant. But we hate Brittney Spears' sister! That girl had a daughter because she had bad parents! But Palin's daughter? She should be embraced!! Why? Why not? We're a confused republican party!! We don't know anything anymore!!! We FUCKING SUCK!!!
Fine, guns in your world make sense. You hunt and kill and eat your hunt. But we're not all cowboys and small-town folk. And we don't all fuck our family tree and take pride in tooth-decay. And when the non-educated have babies, they stick them in garbage cans and then collect food stamps. And somehow you have the right to vote when you should be vaporized!!!??!!!
We live in cities and in suburbs of cities where kids get guns and don't have the guidance of good parents to teach them how to use guns and the discipline to use a gun. Here in the city, a junkie can get a gun by sucking a dick, and then get the ammo by sucking another dick. And then he takes that gun and shoots the clerk of 7-11 and robs the bank and buys another gun and some drugs and then sells the drugs and DO YOU SEE THE CYCLE?!?!
Now if you cowboys want to enlist as city cops, please do, since you like shooting your guns.
Now come to the South Side of Chicago and look at all the children that have been shot. You probably won't give a fuck...you'll just jump on a bull and ride it. You'll secretly say "nigger kid should never have been born anyway." See how I can demonize you assholes? You sick fucks. Damn you for saying that and for being such racist fucks. The sad thing is is that so much of this country still thinks this way. It's sad and really it scares me that people are so out of motherfucking touch.
But maybe not everyone.
Prove me wrong, assholes. Can you see where the problem with guns exists? You want to form the law in your safe little towns, but hey, a lot of us live in actual cities and we don't want everyone armed. In a place where there is a bar every 10 feet. Where there are guns and racists.
Our cities of America don't need guns.
And we sure as shit don't need you God-fuckers telling the rest of us our rights as per your bible.
I studied that fucking book for 15 years and honestly, there is a lot of truth and good value there. But most of the cock-sucking world refuses to actually read it as though it should be read.
And when I say the "cock-sucking world"I suppose I mean all you ignorant fucks that suck Bill O'Reilly's dick or just base your life on some dumb e-mails and postings.
FUCK YOU ALL.
And for those who read this, my guess is no one...but just in case, I'm trying to make a goddamned point. About the sickness of this country. About the bullshit, the ignorance, the lies and the misfortune. Before you come after me, if you decided to come after me, first stick your finger down your throat and stare at your face in the reflection of your vomit.
Most likely, you're worth nothing more.
And to calculate how much less you're worth...fuck...start digging your grave.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Trache Man
I walked in late to work a few Sundays ago. The other asshole that was supposed to open the bar never showed up which means I need to go haul all the bottles upstairs, into the bar and put them on the shelves, neatly. I do this with grace and patience if not a bit of laziness and to my own speed. There's a man sitting in the bar. Old, frail, salt and pepper mustache, Airborne Marines hat. Before I step behind the bar he approaches me and puts a hand over his neck and grumbles..."Bar open?" As goddamned hungover and "fuck you" that I am, I begrudgingly say "I can serve beer and wine, but I don't have ice yet to pour a mixed drink."
He looks at me, I look at him. He stares at me for a moment and my eyes slowly scan down his face and to his neck where there's a hole a little larger than a quarter. He puts his hand over the hole and says, in a garbled voice, "Budweiser." He takes the fifth bar stool to my right, his left, the one closest to the wall.
I unlock the cooler, grab a Budweiser, take off the top and then put his drink in front of him. He grabs it and guzzles.
He puts his hand over his throat hole and says "thanks".
"No problem," I said and began unpacking the bottles of liquor.
From behind me, he started to speak.
"I was on the train and they took me off because I was passing out."
I turned around to look at him at he just had this odd blank stare.
"Fuck," I thought, "I just fucking got here and now I have to deal with this?"
"Sucks" I said to him and continued to put the bottles on the shelf.
"Was going to Montana" I heard a thick, marbled voice say.
I turned around and looked at him.
"Sucks." I said again.
He stared at me from behind his glasses, from beneath his trucker-style cap, from over his black and white mustache.
"Well, you're here now," I said both pissed off that this guy was actually here, on a Sunday night and when I first walked in.
He remained silent for awhile as I put the bottles on the shelf and turned on the official "Open for Business" lights.
I turned on Baseball Tonight and began watching a Dodgers game.
"Blarghfullmetaught" I heard a noise come from behind me.
"Manny," I heard him say.
It was one of the first games Manny Ramirez had played since he was no longer a Boston Red Sox but an LA Dodger.
"Who would have thought" is what I finally deciphered from his hand on hole communication.
"Yeah, he's been hitting pretty well," I said.
"Yarglmefarg," is all I heard from the man.
I walked out from behind the bar and stood just beneath the television, my back to him.
That's when I heard it. A motor. And a slurping noise. I turned around and the man had grabbed a three-foot hose from his bag and stuck one end into the hole in his throat.
A thick sludge-sucking sound came from his surroundings.
"Oh fuck," I thought and walked outside.
Now let me just say, I have nothing but sympathy for this man. But most people that have a tracheotomy usually cover up that hole and use the phlegm shop-vac in a private place.
I walked back inside and the guy just looked sort of dead, staring at the ground. Occasionally slugging at his beer. Nobody else was in the bar. Just me and him and a baseball game. It looked like a scene right out of a David Lynch movie.
I walked behind the man to see if he was almost done with his beer. I figured the guy wouldn't want another and that as soon as he finished this one, he'd leave. Just as I walk behind the bar, he perks up and puts some money down and motions to me that he'll take another.
"God fucking damnit!" I thought. Get out of here, man. Take your hole, your spit vacuum and your bag of phlegm out of here. I grabbed another bottle of bud and put it in front of him.
He nodded.
The guy started weirding me out. He just sat there, looked at the ground and then every fifteen minutes he pulled that hose out from his bag, turned on his device and slurp, slurp, slurp, a brown chunky syrup was extracted and sat warmly in a container inside a beaten up gray gym bag that had been trying to get to Montana.
Every time I heard that motor kick on I left the bar. I'd stand outside and look in to see when he was finished or I'd walk into the back office, choking back my own urge to vomit.
At one point when I returned to the bar, a woman was sitting on the opposite end of the drinky-suck guy.
"This should be interesting," I thought. I stood behind the bar and this guy was staring at the woman. He put his hand over his throat and said "Hello!"
She smiled politely and asked for a martini. Once we determined what kind, I began putting the ingredients into a shaker and shook up the liquor and ice.
"Don't see that too often," the man hacked out. "Shaking drinks."
"Well, you're supposed to shake martini's or stir them I suppose but usually you shake them."
He looked at me with that blank stare that made me what to smash the martini shaker into his skull.
Instead, I poured the drink into a glass and set it in front of the woman.
"Thank-you," she said and took a drink, "Yummy!"
"Mmm, yummy," I thought, just as the man began fingering some napkins out of the napkin caddy and wipe at his dripping hole. He crumpled the used napkins and set them down on the bar.
With a sick smile I turned my head and looked at the woman. She looked at me with the same kind of smile, the kind that you paint over the look of disgust.
Silence.
It was a very long and uncomfortable silence. I could have said something but I didn't want to instigate a conversation that this guy might try to join in on. Luckily, I didn't have to. He reached into his bag and grabbed the tube.
Just before he inserted it into the hole in his neck the woman got up and said, "I'm going to sit over in the corner."
She got up and the guy waved goodbye as he inserted the tube and hit the "on" switch.
"Shit motherfucker!" I yelled in my head and walked outside. I was just getting annoyed. The sound of the motor, the slurping noise and just the idea that this guy thought it was socially acceptable.
But what the fuck can I do? He's handicapped. I can't discriminate. You don't bar people in wheelchairs, or have massive burn scars or deformities or anything like that. But damn it, can you just fucking get up and walk the 50 feet to the bathroom. Suck away in the stall, man!
I was getting irritated. I started half-choking. I walked away again. I mean shit. I can understand that a guy in that position, the one thing he both needs and doesn't need is a drink. I would want to drink too. But I'd probably sit in my room and be tipping a bottle of vodka.
Anyway, I couldn't take it anymore. Even when he wasn't doing it, I could see in my mind the insertion of the tube, the sound of the motor, the sound of the phlegm being removed and then the sight of him pulling the tube out and the long strings of brown crap hanging around the hole. Then watching his hand get all spider-like as it pulled napkins out of the caddy and wiped his throat hole and then balling up the napkins and putting them on the bar.
He did it again and once he finished, once he turned the motor off, put the tube back in the bag and wiped his throat, I said:
"I'm sorry, sir. I understand your situation but can you please do that in the bathroom?"
I was shaking. I didn't know if this guy was crazy or now that he had two beers, maybe he was drunk (he was pretty skinny).
He puts his hand on his hole and says "What?"
"Look," I say "I've got ice, I've got glasses, food and stuff right here and you keep using your device, right here at the bar where people drink and sometimes eat. Can you do that in the bathroom?"
"No one has ever said anything to me before," he said and took his beer and walked away.
Two weeks later, he showed back up and ordered a Bud Light from me. I pretended not to recognize him. He sat in the corner and drank it. He didn't use his pump or anything.
He just drank his beer and left.
I'm guessing that I was the only person on the planet at that time dealing with a situation like that.
He looks at me, I look at him. He stares at me for a moment and my eyes slowly scan down his face and to his neck where there's a hole a little larger than a quarter. He puts his hand over the hole and says, in a garbled voice, "Budweiser." He takes the fifth bar stool to my right, his left, the one closest to the wall.
I unlock the cooler, grab a Budweiser, take off the top and then put his drink in front of him. He grabs it and guzzles.
He puts his hand over his throat hole and says "thanks".
"No problem," I said and began unpacking the bottles of liquor.
From behind me, he started to speak.
"I was on the train and they took me off because I was passing out."
I turned around to look at him at he just had this odd blank stare.
"Fuck," I thought, "I just fucking got here and now I have to deal with this?"
"Sucks" I said to him and continued to put the bottles on the shelf.
"Was going to Montana" I heard a thick, marbled voice say.
I turned around and looked at him.
"Sucks." I said again.
He stared at me from behind his glasses, from beneath his trucker-style cap, from over his black and white mustache.
"Well, you're here now," I said both pissed off that this guy was actually here, on a Sunday night and when I first walked in.
He remained silent for awhile as I put the bottles on the shelf and turned on the official "Open for Business" lights.
I turned on Baseball Tonight and began watching a Dodgers game.
"Blarghfullmetaught" I heard a noise come from behind me.
"Manny," I heard him say.
It was one of the first games Manny Ramirez had played since he was no longer a Boston Red Sox but an LA Dodger.
"Who would have thought" is what I finally deciphered from his hand on hole communication.
"Yeah, he's been hitting pretty well," I said.
"Yarglmefarg," is all I heard from the man.
I walked out from behind the bar and stood just beneath the television, my back to him.
That's when I heard it. A motor. And a slurping noise. I turned around and the man had grabbed a three-foot hose from his bag and stuck one end into the hole in his throat.
A thick sludge-sucking sound came from his surroundings.
"Oh fuck," I thought and walked outside.
Now let me just say, I have nothing but sympathy for this man. But most people that have a tracheotomy usually cover up that hole and use the phlegm shop-vac in a private place.
I walked back inside and the guy just looked sort of dead, staring at the ground. Occasionally slugging at his beer. Nobody else was in the bar. Just me and him and a baseball game. It looked like a scene right out of a David Lynch movie.
I walked behind the man to see if he was almost done with his beer. I figured the guy wouldn't want another and that as soon as he finished this one, he'd leave. Just as I walk behind the bar, he perks up and puts some money down and motions to me that he'll take another.
"God fucking damnit!" I thought. Get out of here, man. Take your hole, your spit vacuum and your bag of phlegm out of here. I grabbed another bottle of bud and put it in front of him.
He nodded.
The guy started weirding me out. He just sat there, looked at the ground and then every fifteen minutes he pulled that hose out from his bag, turned on his device and slurp, slurp, slurp, a brown chunky syrup was extracted and sat warmly in a container inside a beaten up gray gym bag that had been trying to get to Montana.
Every time I heard that motor kick on I left the bar. I'd stand outside and look in to see when he was finished or I'd walk into the back office, choking back my own urge to vomit.
At one point when I returned to the bar, a woman was sitting on the opposite end of the drinky-suck guy.
"This should be interesting," I thought. I stood behind the bar and this guy was staring at the woman. He put his hand over his throat and said "Hello!"
She smiled politely and asked for a martini. Once we determined what kind, I began putting the ingredients into a shaker and shook up the liquor and ice.
"Don't see that too often," the man hacked out. "Shaking drinks."
"Well, you're supposed to shake martini's or stir them I suppose but usually you shake them."
He looked at me with that blank stare that made me what to smash the martini shaker into his skull.
Instead, I poured the drink into a glass and set it in front of the woman.
"Thank-you," she said and took a drink, "Yummy!"
"Mmm, yummy," I thought, just as the man began fingering some napkins out of the napkin caddy and wipe at his dripping hole. He crumpled the used napkins and set them down on the bar.
With a sick smile I turned my head and looked at the woman. She looked at me with the same kind of smile, the kind that you paint over the look of disgust.
Silence.
It was a very long and uncomfortable silence. I could have said something but I didn't want to instigate a conversation that this guy might try to join in on. Luckily, I didn't have to. He reached into his bag and grabbed the tube.
Just before he inserted it into the hole in his neck the woman got up and said, "I'm going to sit over in the corner."
She got up and the guy waved goodbye as he inserted the tube and hit the "on" switch.
"Shit motherfucker!" I yelled in my head and walked outside. I was just getting annoyed. The sound of the motor, the slurping noise and just the idea that this guy thought it was socially acceptable.
But what the fuck can I do? He's handicapped. I can't discriminate. You don't bar people in wheelchairs, or have massive burn scars or deformities or anything like that. But damn it, can you just fucking get up and walk the 50 feet to the bathroom. Suck away in the stall, man!
I was getting irritated. I started half-choking. I walked away again. I mean shit. I can understand that a guy in that position, the one thing he both needs and doesn't need is a drink. I would want to drink too. But I'd probably sit in my room and be tipping a bottle of vodka.
Anyway, I couldn't take it anymore. Even when he wasn't doing it, I could see in my mind the insertion of the tube, the sound of the motor, the sound of the phlegm being removed and then the sight of him pulling the tube out and the long strings of brown crap hanging around the hole. Then watching his hand get all spider-like as it pulled napkins out of the caddy and wiped his throat hole and then balling up the napkins and putting them on the bar.
He did it again and once he finished, once he turned the motor off, put the tube back in the bag and wiped his throat, I said:
"I'm sorry, sir. I understand your situation but can you please do that in the bathroom?"
I was shaking. I didn't know if this guy was crazy or now that he had two beers, maybe he was drunk (he was pretty skinny).
He puts his hand on his hole and says "What?"
"Look," I say "I've got ice, I've got glasses, food and stuff right here and you keep using your device, right here at the bar where people drink and sometimes eat. Can you do that in the bathroom?"
"No one has ever said anything to me before," he said and took his beer and walked away.
Two weeks later, he showed back up and ordered a Bud Light from me. I pretended not to recognize him. He sat in the corner and drank it. He didn't use his pump or anything.
He just drank his beer and left.
I'm guessing that I was the only person on the planet at that time dealing with a situation like that.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Ever Heard Of Just Shutting The Fuck Up?
Yeah, you. Talking to me. Talking at me. You have no idea as to how much I want to recreate your face, just stick my fist into your mouth and twist, twist and twist some more until your eyeballs are itching and flickering due to you own chin hair crawling and growing long in the night.
Shut up? Maybe?
Here's the new Zen...death. Don't meditate, perform yoga or light a fucking candle. Take a glass and smash it on your face. Let your eyes bleed and distort your vision. Follow that new map. The crimson map. Buy a canoe or a shotgun, or both. Travel or suicide. But all in all, put your goddamned mouth to rest.
Shut up? Maybe?
Here's the new Zen...death. Don't meditate, perform yoga or light a fucking candle. Take a glass and smash it on your face. Let your eyes bleed and distort your vision. Follow that new map. The crimson map. Buy a canoe or a shotgun, or both. Travel or suicide. But all in all, put your goddamned mouth to rest.
I Can Get Us Out Of Here (No, I Can't)
We need to leave this place. Pack your bag with bottles, the fuller ones, paper, pens and an old t-shirt, one that you can use to either wipe your ass with or wrap a wound with.
The shitstorm is here and I know you don't love me and that's fine but we'll want to get the fuck out of here and maybe we'll re-learn to like each other after we escape together, by a hair, by a thread, by a shot, because we split a smoke instead of each dragging full. We got out of that place. That place that is in my head, in my nightmares and my dreams, that escape that a tornado always manages to find. "Fuck you, 'nado!"
I call upon bravado, bullshit and phoniness. "I will lead the way!" You look at me like I'm a fucking idiot. I am one. My back hurts and spasms. "I've got nothing." You run. Typical. As soon as I admit that I'm out of gas you go look for a ride.
Alone now. I feel it on my back. The night is thicker, denser, heavy like a fur coat thrown on my back. I can barely breathe. Thankfully, you dropped the bag. I really want a drink, in the middle of this darkness. I can at least try to get me out of here, after a few hits...
The shitstorm is here and I know you don't love me and that's fine but we'll want to get the fuck out of here and maybe we'll re-learn to like each other after we escape together, by a hair, by a thread, by a shot, because we split a smoke instead of each dragging full. We got out of that place. That place that is in my head, in my nightmares and my dreams, that escape that a tornado always manages to find. "Fuck you, 'nado!"
I call upon bravado, bullshit and phoniness. "I will lead the way!" You look at me like I'm a fucking idiot. I am one. My back hurts and spasms. "I've got nothing." You run. Typical. As soon as I admit that I'm out of gas you go look for a ride.
Alone now. I feel it on my back. The night is thicker, denser, heavy like a fur coat thrown on my back. I can barely breathe. Thankfully, you dropped the bag. I really want a drink, in the middle of this darkness. I can at least try to get me out of here, after a few hits...
The Human Living Hangover
I am a hangover, I am not sure if I am human anymore. I barely know what not being either drunk or hungover feels like. Sleeping through most of the day, awake until 7 am, drinking coffee at 8pm, looking like a bloated tick, full of lyme disease. Surrounded by scissors and the idea of painting all the crosses in the city black. Drunk, hungover, I struggle to live in any "normal" society. Try to figure out when to keep my mouth shut or recognize when my voice is getting loud. Slow down when my drink forces me to speed up.
I stand behind the bar and struggle to put on a happy face and say "hi, there, how are you, what may I get you?" I just stand there, look dead, struggle to not throw up on myself, grip my side of the bar.
I leave work early, telling myself I'll just go to sleep. I crack open a beer, just a beer, make sure I'm good and tired. Alright, have a shot, really put me to sleep. Fine, have another shot and another beer. Not tired. Alright, give me the bottle...pass the fuck out and feel the pain of it all tomorrow, just let me sleep tonight.
I stand behind the bar and struggle to put on a happy face and say "hi, there, how are you, what may I get you?" I just stand there, look dead, struggle to not throw up on myself, grip my side of the bar.
I leave work early, telling myself I'll just go to sleep. I crack open a beer, just a beer, make sure I'm good and tired. Alright, have a shot, really put me to sleep. Fine, have another shot and another beer. Not tired. Alright, give me the bottle...pass the fuck out and feel the pain of it all tomorrow, just let me sleep tonight.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Suck My Fuck Clock
I don't want to get out of bed, ever. A drink is placed just out of reach, it forces me to crawl onto the floor and I grab the drink and suck it down like a prisoner turned into a starved rat. I look around, I look for another drink and find it, just a few feet away. I don't bother to get up, I just crawl to the next drink. The sun is out and I say "fuck you, sun" as I suck down the booze. I don't know if I have to go to work. I think I might...just have another drink and *poof* there it is, in front of the TV, using Voltaire as a coaster. I need to finish both of you...I think as I drag myself across the floor, pick up the drink and the book. The room is too bright, I only read in the dark, or in burning apartments and right now I have neither. I sense that there is a drink in the closet, I move toward it with book in hand. I open the closet door and there is the gold, the oil, the forget, the fuck you, the eat shit motherfucking drink. I get into the closet, sit beneath suits and winter coats and close the door. I suck the drink, and finally my brain is alive...yes, thoughts by way of death. Suffocating, cut off, alone, shrunken. I feel more alive now than I do on the bus, going to a fucking job.
In here I will escape and I will not go to work. Do I even have a job?
In here I will escape and I will not go to work. Do I even have a job?
Monday, July 14, 2008
Pictures on the rocks...
Not long after a personal debate dealing with whether I should have a drink or pop some sleeping pills, I decided to go with a Jack on the rocks, squirt of water. For some reason I decided to look at all my photos on my computer. Ah, now there's something to justify suicide! Ex-lovers, drunken moments, too much weight then the right weight and I look at myself and I'm a bloated whiskey tick. The memories are in no means "haunting", in fact, they are pleasant. Mostly because I was so drunk that I can't remember that shit without the help of the photos.
I've thrown away most of my pictures of the past. Massive lovers and vacations. Pictures of kisses and beaches. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. I always have this thing in my head of wanting to forget. Strip my brain and life of weight, objects, things, unnecessary memories. But maybe these memories are in fact necessary. They document my life; just because things didn't work out, doesn't mean I need to throw away the past. I've thrown away hundreds of love letters and little notes with the words "miss you, love you" scribbled on them. I wonder why I can depart with those things so easily. Minimalism. And honestly, I do remember. And because I have such a good memory, I drink. I drink away my failures. I allow drink to be my honesty and then when the hell of truth comes out of my mouth, I pass out and wake up and pick up the pieces, if I'm wrong.
I'm often wrong. But when I'm right, I'm goddamned right.
And whenever I feel guilty about ending a relationship, years later, even through the drunken haze, I remember getting slapped, yelled at, screamed at, attacked. All for being honest, and perhaps a bit drunk.
In any event, looking at the pictures was a fun time to have alone in the dark.
I've thrown away most of my pictures of the past. Massive lovers and vacations. Pictures of kisses and beaches. Maybe I shouldn't have done that. I always have this thing in my head of wanting to forget. Strip my brain and life of weight, objects, things, unnecessary memories. But maybe these memories are in fact necessary. They document my life; just because things didn't work out, doesn't mean I need to throw away the past. I've thrown away hundreds of love letters and little notes with the words "miss you, love you" scribbled on them. I wonder why I can depart with those things so easily. Minimalism. And honestly, I do remember. And because I have such a good memory, I drink. I drink away my failures. I allow drink to be my honesty and then when the hell of truth comes out of my mouth, I pass out and wake up and pick up the pieces, if I'm wrong.
I'm often wrong. But when I'm right, I'm goddamned right.
And whenever I feel guilty about ending a relationship, years later, even through the drunken haze, I remember getting slapped, yelled at, screamed at, attacked. All for being honest, and perhaps a bit drunk.
In any event, looking at the pictures was a fun time to have alone in the dark.
Tonight's Drinking
Last night I worked and was exhausted. I bartended until 2 AM. Drunks, wish I could have been one of them but I was on the wrong side of the bar. I kept pouring. They kept paying and talking until they could barely talk. One guy told a chick he wanted to eat her out. "I'd like to perform cunnilingus on you" was his exact line. She laughed, invited him to another bar and who knows what happened. I went home, drank 2 beers and hated being alive. Still hungover. Still somewhat reeling from a panic attack, still unhealthy, tired. Just the other two nights, I was the drunk.
Tonight, I'm trying to lay off of the sauce. I just finished a bottle of Cab, and I can't sleep worth a shit. I'm looking at the Jack and saying "No." Then I say "we're not there yet". Then I say "should I drink it on the rocks? Or with a splash of water?"
Fuck it. The gym I joined finally started charging me and my phony ambition says, skip the whiskey, go to sleep, work out.
On the rocks it is...
Tonight, I'm trying to lay off of the sauce. I just finished a bottle of Cab, and I can't sleep worth a shit. I'm looking at the Jack and saying "No." Then I say "we're not there yet". Then I say "should I drink it on the rocks? Or with a splash of water?"
Fuck it. The gym I joined finally started charging me and my phony ambition says, skip the whiskey, go to sleep, work out.
On the rocks it is...
Friday, July 11, 2008
Surrounded by bottles, love
The drink brings me back and takes me away. When I try to fall asleep sober, that's when the demons come and choke me and pile dead children on top of my paralyzed body. I can't scream, I hyperventilate, I yell inside of my mouth and stop breathing just to wake up. When I do wake up, I throw the dead and the demons up into the air and then go and take a piss and a breath. What the fuck is that shit all about?
"You need to see a therapist," I am told. I see the bottom of a bottle instead. It's cheaper, I don't need a referral and I can smoke and do the dishes.
Fuck all.
"You need to see a therapist," I am told. I see the bottom of a bottle instead. It's cheaper, I don't need a referral and I can smoke and do the dishes.
Fuck all.
Notes From The Show
Last night I went to see my friend perform in his band, B1g T1me. I wasn't initially going to go, I had already had four martinis, two jack on the rocks, and two beers. I got into a mini-van taxi and headed for the show, in the rain. The cab driver wore a camouflage headband and we talked about the Chicago White Sox the whole trip over to the Abbey Pub. I gave the driver 20 on a 15 dollar trip. I had a few shots of Jack and a few beers before I realized that I was drunk. I sat at a table in the back of the room. Before my friend's band played the crowd was treated to a burlesque show. About 30 minutes of eh, not-so attractive women, by conventional means, took their clothes off.
I felt a bit perverted being the guy, the alone guy sitting at a table, with a few drinks in front of him. I pulled out some paper and started writing.
Here are my notes:
Dick fingers
Pulling at them
Cracking knuckles
Cunts
Notes
Make it look
Like I'm not drunk
It took me awhile to decode my drunk handwriting.
Three songs into listening to my friend's band play, I had to leave. I was wasted. I stood on five different corners while trying to call a cab or find one driving by.
I caught a cab and headed home where I continued to drink myself into hell.
But I remember writing those notes and how hard I was trying to not look drunk.
I am an asshole. Finishing a second bottle of wine tonight.
I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, having some crazy panic attack. I couldn't eat my food and I could barely drink my wine but I choked the wine down and the buzz calmed the panic.
But the panic and the fear and the paranoia and the depression and hatred mix together every once in a while and my system crashes. And I think that I'm going to die.
But again, another drink keeps me alive and I wonder, just how long can I live like this?
Then I see old, old men, drunk, wasted, fucked walking up and down Chicago avenue and I take comfort in knowing that if they can survive like roaches, drunk, drugged up fuckless roaches, then I can live and survive too.
I guess we'll see. Or, see you at my funeral. Don't wear a suit. Don't even come. Or bukakke my ashes. I don't know.
I felt a bit perverted being the guy, the alone guy sitting at a table, with a few drinks in front of him. I pulled out some paper and started writing.
Here are my notes:
Dick fingers
Pulling at them
Cracking knuckles
Cunts
Notes
Make it look
Like I'm not drunk
It took me awhile to decode my drunk handwriting.
Three songs into listening to my friend's band play, I had to leave. I was wasted. I stood on five different corners while trying to call a cab or find one driving by.
I caught a cab and headed home where I continued to drink myself into hell.
But I remember writing those notes and how hard I was trying to not look drunk.
I am an asshole. Finishing a second bottle of wine tonight.
I was sitting in an Italian restaurant, having some crazy panic attack. I couldn't eat my food and I could barely drink my wine but I choked the wine down and the buzz calmed the panic.
But the panic and the fear and the paranoia and the depression and hatred mix together every once in a while and my system crashes. And I think that I'm going to die.
But again, another drink keeps me alive and I wonder, just how long can I live like this?
Then I see old, old men, drunk, wasted, fucked walking up and down Chicago avenue and I take comfort in knowing that if they can survive like roaches, drunk, drugged up fuckless roaches, then I can live and survive too.
I guess we'll see. Or, see you at my funeral. Don't wear a suit. Don't even come. Or bukakke my ashes. I don't know.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
14 Dollar Roll
With that bottle of Jack that I bought from the grocery store after work, I have now had just over half of it. If I was in a bar, my bar or any bar, that would be at least a fifty-dollar roll.
We must understand the economy of self destruction: have enough money to drink enough death and never go into financial debt for the thirst. This is perfect consumer alcoholism. Making it seem that no real harm is done because it doesn't break you financially.
If you're not paying for it, it's not alcoholism. Free drink is just a party. Cheap drink, alone, is trying to work out the demons. An inflated tab is just being an asshole.
Falling asleep with something left in the bottle is questionable.
Landing on a bed is admirable.
Getting home is praise-worthy.
Not shedding blood or tear is noble.
Exuding and soul-bearing is putting the truth on the line.
Waking up is the problem.
We must understand the economy of self destruction: have enough money to drink enough death and never go into financial debt for the thirst. This is perfect consumer alcoholism. Making it seem that no real harm is done because it doesn't break you financially.
If you're not paying for it, it's not alcoholism. Free drink is just a party. Cheap drink, alone, is trying to work out the demons. An inflated tab is just being an asshole.
Falling asleep with something left in the bottle is questionable.
Landing on a bed is admirable.
Getting home is praise-worthy.
Not shedding blood or tear is noble.
Exuding and soul-bearing is putting the truth on the line.
Waking up is the problem.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Ah, A Peaceful Fuck Me
I'm sipping Jack while listening to Wolfgang Voigt and not feeling like killing anybody, not even myself. Not yet, I've only had two drinks. I was loaded and pumped on July 4th, standing outside, getting ready to murder a group of asshole suburban kids blowing up garbage cans. Been standing on my collapsing knees for the past few days in a bar that almost no one visits. I limp home in pain, a pain I didn't really earn. And a soreness, the soreness of doing nothing. Combined with drink and I feel like I'm pickling myself alive. As I grow older conventional opportunities for success seem to disappear. Now I must become more creative.
But I can't these days. I just can't think. The ideas show up, enter a queue in my brain and I do nothing with them.
This is in part due to depression. A malaise, a lack of interest. And just to feel something, I drink, t feel drunk. And then I smoke, to help ignite the poison.
I wash the dishes and do the laundry and clean the bathroom just to get some immediate results. I watch baseball games while drinking on the couch just to feel like I am participating. I watch movies drunk to get that feeling that others are near by watching it with me. I carry a book around, thinking I'll be able to sneak in some pages on the bus or at work but I end up staring out the window.
As I walked home from work tonight, I carried a bottle of Jack with me for two miles. I enjoy the buildings and the city chaos to some degree but I need some peace. To be in the middle of nowhere, quiet.
This woman came into the bar and told me about how quiet her neighborhood was on the Fourth Of July: "It was so quiet you could hear a rat piss on a piece of cotton".
I need those days. Those nights. Lots of them. I need all the shit I live with to catch up to me and then let me settle down and analyze it. Walk through it. Remember it and relive it, from a distance. I'm finding it harder to write about Hell when I am constantly wading through Hell, being slapped in the face by waves of fire. I need everything to shut down for a minute, an hour, a day, a month so that I can re-group. Because every day sucks so much, I have to drink them down instead of documenting them. At the end of the day, at the end of the night, I want to forget. But really I need it all to survive.
But I can't these days. I just can't think. The ideas show up, enter a queue in my brain and I do nothing with them.
This is in part due to depression. A malaise, a lack of interest. And just to feel something, I drink, t feel drunk. And then I smoke, to help ignite the poison.
I wash the dishes and do the laundry and clean the bathroom just to get some immediate results. I watch baseball games while drinking on the couch just to feel like I am participating. I watch movies drunk to get that feeling that others are near by watching it with me. I carry a book around, thinking I'll be able to sneak in some pages on the bus or at work but I end up staring out the window.
As I walked home from work tonight, I carried a bottle of Jack with me for two miles. I enjoy the buildings and the city chaos to some degree but I need some peace. To be in the middle of nowhere, quiet.
This woman came into the bar and told me about how quiet her neighborhood was on the Fourth Of July: "It was so quiet you could hear a rat piss on a piece of cotton".
I need those days. Those nights. Lots of them. I need all the shit I live with to catch up to me and then let me settle down and analyze it. Walk through it. Remember it and relive it, from a distance. I'm finding it harder to write about Hell when I am constantly wading through Hell, being slapped in the face by waves of fire. I need everything to shut down for a minute, an hour, a day, a month so that I can re-group. Because every day sucks so much, I have to drink them down instead of documenting them. At the end of the day, at the end of the night, I want to forget. But really I need it all to survive.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Swollen Hands
My right hand is in constant pain. I took my shoe off to crush a spider but my aim is off, I'm vodka in, sight out. I hesitated before I initiated the attack. The spider has every right to live, even if it's in my room. My shoe hit the wall just above the guy and I watched him gracefully escape via web to the floor where he'll probably sneak up an bite my ankle or crawl into my pants and bite my sack while I sleep, passed out, full of vodka.
Let me start over.
My right fucking hand is in constant pain. It's swollen. That's my pouring hand. The hand I use to grab at bottles of booze and pour for couples, travelers, the lonely, the alien, the strange and myself.
I'm losing grip, my wrist is in constant pain as well from turning those bottles into pouring positions and shaking martinis. I'm waiting for my wrist to break and my career as a poisoner to end.
Goddamnit. That spider just crawled into my shoe and my left foot just smashed my right foot in an effort to crush the damn thing. I will prepare to limp. Smoke from my cigarette just went into my eye and now I am a stooge. The tenth billion...self-crippled.
The swelling should go down if I could keep a glass of booze and ice in my hand long enough. I can't.
My shoulders ache as I pull off my shoe and see the flattened spider just above my big toe. I rub it away, recognize that I will have bite marks in my foot and prepare for an itch.
My motherfucking right hand is in pain. It hurts to make a fist. It is already a casualty after all the punching of walls and mirrors. But if I can't pour, I'm useless.
My left hand is the relief pitcher, the back-up quarterback, the VP when the president gets shot. It knows how to hold a glass, it knows how to pour a drink but realizes that a drink poured by a lefty is not the same as one poured by a righty.
I need to train it. I need to train my foot how to pour, just in case. I need to learn how to grip a bottle of whiskey in my mouth and pour the drink without being sloppy about it...if I am going to be this way.
This way.
I should think this hard about love. How to feel it. How to give it.
But my hands still work.
I can still pour.
Light a smoke.
Scrape away dead spiders.
And my mind still works.
Think about alarms.
Think about love.
Think about the worst.
Preparing for it
Is really all I think about.
Survival of the damned.
Survival of the broken.
Survival of the next sunrise.
Let me start over.
My right fucking hand is in constant pain. It's swollen. That's my pouring hand. The hand I use to grab at bottles of booze and pour for couples, travelers, the lonely, the alien, the strange and myself.
I'm losing grip, my wrist is in constant pain as well from turning those bottles into pouring positions and shaking martinis. I'm waiting for my wrist to break and my career as a poisoner to end.
Goddamnit. That spider just crawled into my shoe and my left foot just smashed my right foot in an effort to crush the damn thing. I will prepare to limp. Smoke from my cigarette just went into my eye and now I am a stooge. The tenth billion...self-crippled.
The swelling should go down if I could keep a glass of booze and ice in my hand long enough. I can't.
My shoulders ache as I pull off my shoe and see the flattened spider just above my big toe. I rub it away, recognize that I will have bite marks in my foot and prepare for an itch.
My motherfucking right hand is in pain. It hurts to make a fist. It is already a casualty after all the punching of walls and mirrors. But if I can't pour, I'm useless.
My left hand is the relief pitcher, the back-up quarterback, the VP when the president gets shot. It knows how to hold a glass, it knows how to pour a drink but realizes that a drink poured by a lefty is not the same as one poured by a righty.
I need to train it. I need to train my foot how to pour, just in case. I need to learn how to grip a bottle of whiskey in my mouth and pour the drink without being sloppy about it...if I am going to be this way.
This way.
I should think this hard about love. How to feel it. How to give it.
But my hands still work.
I can still pour.
Light a smoke.
Scrape away dead spiders.
And my mind still works.
Think about alarms.
Think about love.
Think about the worst.
Preparing for it
Is really all I think about.
Survival of the damned.
Survival of the broken.
Survival of the next sunrise.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Carcass
The dead beetle lies
Legs up
Next to the garbage can
And I walk over it
Three days in a row now
Habit kicks in
And every time
I walk to the bathroom
With a magazine
I just naturally take
An extra long
Step
To not
Crush the corpse
Beneath
My foot
And I piss and shit
Read about
Politics and art
While I crap
Then shave and shower
And step over
The corpse again
And find some
Clean clothes
I shoot some whiskey
And get ready for
Work
Walking to the job
I step over the beggars
And ignore the
Asking questions
"Got a cigarette?
Some change?"
I return home
And the dead beetle
Is illuminated in the bit
Of moonlight
That permeates through
The cracks of the
Always shut blinds
I pour a drink
I light a smoke
"Hey asshole,
You got one for me?"
Something in the room
Speaks up
I already told the walls
At gunpoint
To not address me
Within the first
Ten minutes
Of my arrival
So I knew the voice
Wasn't coming from
The walls
I put my head down
On a pillow
A gun is in my face
"You should have thrown
Me away a week ago"
I couldn't see who or what
Was holding that piece
"Turn the light on"
I was commanded
I reached for the pull-chain
The room lit up
The beetle was holding
A gun to my head
Pictures of ex-girlfriends
And ex-friends
Were littered
Everywhere
"You don't know
How to throw anything
Away"
I slowly reached under my pillow
For a bottle of whiskey
"Watch it, pal," it said.
I took a swig
"So what's next?"
I asked
As I looked at smiles
And poses
And kisses
Snapshots
Hanging and
Lying
Everywhere
"You're next"
Said the bug
The gun fell onto
It's side
On the mattress
And I heard the noises
Of something
Choking and dying
I passed out
And woke up
To the smell
Of burning toast
And felt the room
Crowded with
Ghosts
A message
Written in coffee grounds
On the kitchen floor
Read:
"Wake up"
I looked around the room
At the pictures
Saw a bug
Legs up
And said
"No thanks"
Let me return to the nightmares
Just living is easy
Albeit
Disgusting
The nightmares
Let me rest
Awake
Forces me to remember
And feel
I'm not going
To get up
For that
Legs up
Next to the garbage can
And I walk over it
Three days in a row now
Habit kicks in
And every time
I walk to the bathroom
With a magazine
I just naturally take
An extra long
Step
To not
Crush the corpse
Beneath
My foot
And I piss and shit
Read about
Politics and art
While I crap
Then shave and shower
And step over
The corpse again
And find some
Clean clothes
I shoot some whiskey
And get ready for
Work
Walking to the job
I step over the beggars
And ignore the
Asking questions
"Got a cigarette?
Some change?"
I return home
And the dead beetle
Is illuminated in the bit
Of moonlight
That permeates through
The cracks of the
Always shut blinds
I pour a drink
I light a smoke
"Hey asshole,
You got one for me?"
Something in the room
Speaks up
I already told the walls
At gunpoint
To not address me
Within the first
Ten minutes
Of my arrival
So I knew the voice
Wasn't coming from
The walls
I put my head down
On a pillow
A gun is in my face
"You should have thrown
Me away a week ago"
I couldn't see who or what
Was holding that piece
"Turn the light on"
I was commanded
I reached for the pull-chain
The room lit up
The beetle was holding
A gun to my head
Pictures of ex-girlfriends
And ex-friends
Were littered
Everywhere
"You don't know
How to throw anything
Away"
I slowly reached under my pillow
For a bottle of whiskey
"Watch it, pal," it said.
I took a swig
"So what's next?"
I asked
As I looked at smiles
And poses
And kisses
Snapshots
Hanging and
Lying
Everywhere
"You're next"
Said the bug
The gun fell onto
It's side
On the mattress
And I heard the noises
Of something
Choking and dying
I passed out
And woke up
To the smell
Of burning toast
And felt the room
Crowded with
Ghosts
A message
Written in coffee grounds
On the kitchen floor
Read:
"Wake up"
I looked around the room
At the pictures
Saw a bug
Legs up
And said
"No thanks"
Let me return to the nightmares
Just living is easy
Albeit
Disgusting
The nightmares
Let me rest
Awake
Forces me to remember
And feel
I'm not going
To get up
For that
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Fucks, Nudes, Whores And Assholes
In this hotel
I see a lot
Dudes and chicks
That want to party
And fuck
They come to Chicago
On business
They leave their
Lives behind
When they order their
First drink
And I see it
Day in
Day out
Married men
Married women
All with families
Act like children
And binge
And fuck
And cheat
And turn into
Childish assholes
Standing behind the bar
I hate myself
For feeding the poison
The substance
That turns them
All
Into incredulous
Fucks
Pussys get wet
Dicks get hard
You're drinking
Away from home
And business becomes
An orgy
And they high-five me
And shake my hand
I'm the bartender
I'm the IV
Confidant
I cut them off
When necessary
But they all want it
Suck and
Fuck
And cable TV
And a place they can
Puke in
Shit in
Piss in
And put on
A fresh shirt
I hate my job
Sometimes
I watch
Grown-ups
Act like
Children
And see the beginning
Of the downward spiral
But they go home
And act as if nothing
Happened
And everyone
Sobers up
And shirts
Are tucked back
Into chinos
And Blackberry phones
Are turned back on
And women
Wipe the taste of
Dick
Off of their mouths
And drink bloodys
At the hotel bar
14 bucks a pop
And "men"
Mouthwash
And start thinking
"When can I tell this story
In secrecy"
While washing off their
Dicks
And tucking in their shirts
Chewing gum
Like cud
And airplanes take them
Home
And
And children
Run to father
To mother
"Not now dear...
Headache"
Pulse ache
Life ache
Never satisfied
Suburban home
Vacations
College fund
Mommy and Daddy
Are beasts
It's the business
You'll understand
One day
And one day
The sun
Eats us all
And while flesh melts
And you fuse
Skin to skin to skin
Jaws hang loose
And honesty
Is evaporating
Saliva
And we all die
Whether
You wear a suit
Or not
Weather you tuck
Your shirt in
Or not
Whether you paint
Your face
Or not
You never knew it
Was
Coming
You couldn't
Feel yourself
Cumming
You never felt
The cold climate
Of
The
END
I see a lot
Dudes and chicks
That want to party
And fuck
They come to Chicago
On business
They leave their
Lives behind
When they order their
First drink
And I see it
Day in
Day out
Married men
Married women
All with families
Act like children
And binge
And fuck
And cheat
And turn into
Childish assholes
Standing behind the bar
I hate myself
For feeding the poison
The substance
That turns them
All
Into incredulous
Fucks
Pussys get wet
Dicks get hard
You're drinking
Away from home
And business becomes
An orgy
And they high-five me
And shake my hand
I'm the bartender
I'm the IV
Confidant
I cut them off
When necessary
But they all want it
Suck and
Fuck
And cable TV
And a place they can
Puke in
Shit in
Piss in
And put on
A fresh shirt
I hate my job
Sometimes
I watch
Grown-ups
Act like
Children
And see the beginning
Of the downward spiral
But they go home
And act as if nothing
Happened
And everyone
Sobers up
And shirts
Are tucked back
Into chinos
And Blackberry phones
Are turned back on
And women
Wipe the taste of
Dick
Off of their mouths
And drink bloodys
At the hotel bar
14 bucks a pop
And "men"
Mouthwash
And start thinking
"When can I tell this story
In secrecy"
While washing off their
Dicks
And tucking in their shirts
Chewing gum
Like cud
And airplanes take them
Home
And
And children
Run to father
To mother
"Not now dear...
Headache"
Pulse ache
Life ache
Never satisfied
Suburban home
Vacations
College fund
Mommy and Daddy
Are beasts
It's the business
You'll understand
One day
And one day
The sun
Eats us all
And while flesh melts
And you fuse
Skin to skin to skin
Jaws hang loose
And honesty
Is evaporating
Saliva
And we all die
Whether
You wear a suit
Or not
Weather you tuck
Your shirt in
Or not
Whether you paint
Your face
Or not
You never knew it
Was
Coming
You couldn't
Feel yourself
Cumming
You never felt
The cold climate
Of
The
END
Fuck It Today.
On my way to fucking work, I decided to get off the bus on the corner of Michigan and Chicago and walk a few blocks. Get some air, enjoy the outdoors for five minutes before walking into my hellhole, grab a cup of coffee. I get off the bus and there's this dude selling Streetwise. "Hey brother, Streetwise!" he says to me sticking five copies in front of my face, I swat at them like a low flying pigeon and simply say "no".
"Shit!" the guy yells as if he was banking on me, on ME, to give him a buck for his shit rag newspaper. "Shit!" as if his inability to sell a copy of Streetwise to me made him a poor salesman.
"Shit!" I kept hearing it my head.
A few blocks later a girl in a green smock with the word Greenpeace written on it holding a clipboard asks "Do you care about the environment?"
"Today, I don't care about anything," I say and light a match that ignites the planet.
"Shit!" the guy yells as if he was banking on me, on ME, to give him a buck for his shit rag newspaper. "Shit!" as if his inability to sell a copy of Streetwise to me made him a poor salesman.
"Shit!" I kept hearing it my head.
A few blocks later a girl in a green smock with the word Greenpeace written on it holding a clipboard asks "Do you care about the environment?"
"Today, I don't care about anything," I say and light a match that ignites the planet.
Monday, May 5, 2008
People are falling asleep now. I am falling asleep with drink and smoke in hands. Every time I look at my drink it seems to be empty, I don't even realize how much I'm guzzling. I look at the bottle and it tells me just how much.
This guy Jim was back in the bar. He's 60 and wants to party but he can't hold his liquor. He gets off the train that he works on once a week in Chicago and comes right to the bar. He drinks three triple vodkas and then goes out to dinner. When he comes back to the bar, half of his dinner is on his shirt and he wants another drink. He can pronounce the fact that he wants "vodka" and then he takes a sip and turns into a complete retard. Noises leak out of his mouth, noises that he probably thinks are words. His eyes are in the back of his head. He loves his wife, he hates his wife, he loves his life, he hates his life. He can barely stand. He can barely get his drink to his lips but he manages to and spills half of it on his shirt. His vodka mixes with his dinner and his shirt is a wet and edible portrait of his night.
"Brap" he says to me and laughs.
"I can't understand you, Jim," I say and put a glass of water in front of him.
Jim looks at the woman sitting alone drinking Long-Islands next to him.
"You, uh, ha, ha, I'm, uh," he blabs. He can't even remember his own name.
"Gimme, a shot, what do I drink?" he asks me.
"Water, you're drinking water," I respond.
"Yeah, gimme that and what, uh, tequila," He pronounces 'tequila' as 'teezya" and drools into his white goatee.
I give him a shot of water.
He's just another man drowning. In my bar, they arrive by train, car, airplane and foot and all they want is to forget.
I punch out and hit the booze myself. All I want to do is to forget guys like Jim. My fear is that I'm not so unlike him.
This guy Jim was back in the bar. He's 60 and wants to party but he can't hold his liquor. He gets off the train that he works on once a week in Chicago and comes right to the bar. He drinks three triple vodkas and then goes out to dinner. When he comes back to the bar, half of his dinner is on his shirt and he wants another drink. He can pronounce the fact that he wants "vodka" and then he takes a sip and turns into a complete retard. Noises leak out of his mouth, noises that he probably thinks are words. His eyes are in the back of his head. He loves his wife, he hates his wife, he loves his life, he hates his life. He can barely stand. He can barely get his drink to his lips but he manages to and spills half of it on his shirt. His vodka mixes with his dinner and his shirt is a wet and edible portrait of his night.
"Brap" he says to me and laughs.
"I can't understand you, Jim," I say and put a glass of water in front of him.
Jim looks at the woman sitting alone drinking Long-Islands next to him.
"You, uh, ha, ha, I'm, uh," he blabs. He can't even remember his own name.
"Gimme, a shot, what do I drink?" he asks me.
"Water, you're drinking water," I respond.
"Yeah, gimme that and what, uh, tequila," He pronounces 'tequila' as 'teezya" and drools into his white goatee.
I give him a shot of water.
He's just another man drowning. In my bar, they arrive by train, car, airplane and foot and all they want is to forget.
I punch out and hit the booze myself. All I want to do is to forget guys like Jim. My fear is that I'm not so unlike him.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
I damn myself
For thinking
My thoughts
Programmed
To not think
Not feel
Just accept
Never talk
Just bite lip
Clench teeth
And fists
To avoid
A fight
Because I know
That when I open
My mouth
There's going to be
A fight
And I don't want it
Don't need it
I just want to lay down
And look up at anger
And not be a part of it
Even though
I am full of it
I place my shirt
Beneath my head
A pillow
And watch the missiles
Fly
You assholes
Can blow yourselves
Up
I just want to stay down
Here
My skull is a coffin
For my thoughts
And when my thoughts
Die
Burn them
Spread the ash
Don't contain them
Roll them into cigarettes
And smoke the smoked
Booze and lawn chairs
Drive-ins and haircuts
Love and backs
Walking out of doors
Poison is poison
Living is just living
Importance
Is nothing more
Than
Screaming in silence
Crying alone
Laughing alone
Sleeping alone
Just being alone
Listening to
The garbage truck
Throw it all away
And smelling the diesel
Carry it away
To the dump
Where it will be
Pissed upon
By the soul-less
For thinking
My thoughts
Programmed
To not think
Not feel
Just accept
Never talk
Just bite lip
Clench teeth
And fists
To avoid
A fight
Because I know
That when I open
My mouth
There's going to be
A fight
And I don't want it
Don't need it
I just want to lay down
And look up at anger
And not be a part of it
Even though
I am full of it
I place my shirt
Beneath my head
A pillow
And watch the missiles
Fly
You assholes
Can blow yourselves
Up
I just want to stay down
Here
My skull is a coffin
For my thoughts
And when my thoughts
Die
Burn them
Spread the ash
Don't contain them
Roll them into cigarettes
And smoke the smoked
Booze and lawn chairs
Drive-ins and haircuts
Love and backs
Walking out of doors
Poison is poison
Living is just living
Importance
Is nothing more
Than
Screaming in silence
Crying alone
Laughing alone
Sleeping alone
Just being alone
Listening to
The garbage truck
Throw it all away
And smelling the diesel
Carry it away
To the dump
Where it will be
Pissed upon
By the soul-less
The morning birds
Wake up
And I'm trying to
Put myself down
I pour a final
Glass of whiskey
And light a last
Cigarette
And pour another
Glass of whiskey
And set it
Next to the bed
A waiting breakfast
I listened to
Thunderstorms
All night
And waited for
Lightning
To hit my window
But when I needed
The rain the most
It never fell
And the ill
Inside
Was not rinsed
So while Strayhorn
Plays quietly
In the other room
I finish
My drink
And smoke
But my mind
Won't shut down
I listen to the
Ice in my glass
Of breakfast crack
And melt
And consider
An early meal
Drinking with the
Chirping
And the sunrise
Listening to Strayhorn
Thinking that it's
Not so bad
Pushing the time away
When I need to be awake
The way this is all going
I don't want to be
Awake
Wake up
And I'm trying to
Put myself down
I pour a final
Glass of whiskey
And light a last
Cigarette
And pour another
Glass of whiskey
And set it
Next to the bed
A waiting breakfast
I listened to
Thunderstorms
All night
And waited for
Lightning
To hit my window
But when I needed
The rain the most
It never fell
And the ill
Inside
Was not rinsed
So while Strayhorn
Plays quietly
In the other room
I finish
My drink
And smoke
But my mind
Won't shut down
I listen to the
Ice in my glass
Of breakfast crack
And melt
And consider
An early meal
Drinking with the
Chirping
And the sunrise
Listening to Strayhorn
Thinking that it's
Not so bad
Pushing the time away
When I need to be awake
The way this is all going
I don't want to be
Awake
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Let's keep this shit real simple tonight.
Let's just relax.
Let's just pour a drink and go to sleep.
Let's just expect nightmares.
We'll all wake up
And have a cup of coffee
Maybe walk outside
If the weather is decent
Take in a breath
Maybe smoke
Remember the nightmare
And wonder where it came from
Look around
And confirm
Where the nightmare
Came from
Let's just relax.
Let's just pour a drink and go to sleep.
Let's just expect nightmares.
We'll all wake up
And have a cup of coffee
Maybe walk outside
If the weather is decent
Take in a breath
Maybe smoke
Remember the nightmare
And wonder where it came from
Look around
And confirm
Where the nightmare
Came from
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Don't Pick Up The Phone
Don't call me and then
Shove food
In your mouth
And expect a conversation
Chew and exit
Put the fork down
I know you want to
Stab me
With it
Shove food
In your mouth
And expect a conversation
Chew and exit
Put the fork down
I know you want to
Stab me
With it
A Dutchman, A Bloody Cowboy and a Jockey
I will take comfort in this; On this earth I doubt that myself, a Dutchman and a horse jockey would all be at a bar. And no one else.
I had been talking to the Dutchman for about an hour about how most Americans hate George W. Bush. He didn't realize that. He and so many other Europeans were under the impression that because GWB was president, we all voted for him and love him.
"No, my friend," I said,"we mostly all hate the bastard." And I talked about American politics and shit for a while. It was good conversation. Mostly because I got to talk about how much I hate this administration. He was enlightened a bit. He was in for a convention about neurology and most of the people he talked to were people in healthcare and republicans and shit, you get the idea.
Then this dude shows up. A seemingly old man who just wanted a bucket of ice.
I filled his bucket of ice and asked if he wanted anything to drink.
"Well, I got stuff upstairs, but sure now that I'm here..."
"What're you drinking?" I was appreciative of his presence because I was getting tired of telling the Dutchman about how much this country sucks.
The dude that showed up was frail, small and kind of old.
"I was looking to drink a bloody cowboy," he said.
Ah, a "Bloody Cowboy". Beer and tomato juice.
I only had bloody mary mix and some fixings so I put together a grand Bloody Cowboy.
He took one sip and said it was the best he ever had.
He was from Arkansas and got stuck in Chicago because of some flooding downstate that was going to postpone his trip...I didn't ask the destination.
The Dutchman, now drunk on Johnny Walker Black started asking the questions.
"Where are you from"
"Why are you here"
"What do you do"
The small man was a horse jockey. He won 4000 out of 20000 races. He had a horse collapse on him and crush him several years ago. He had won awards. He showed us his scars on his chest that collapsed when a horse fell backwards onto him, breaking his sternum and ribs. He exposed the scar on his head where he had to have a part of his skull replaced because a horse kicked him so hard in the head.
He had to be at least fifty but he looked young. He also looked defeated.
"This train that got shut down is supposed to take me to the next horse I ride. But I'm afraid."
He started welling up in the eyes.
"This is my last chance, I have to ride this horse and win, otherwise I'm done. "
He put one of his prize trophys, a belt buckle, on the bar.
"Horses don't seem to like me anymore, but they're how I make a living."
The "Bloody Cowboy" was done.
We all looked at each other.
I turned the lights off and whispered "last call"
I poured myself a drink and the room was empty.
I had been talking to the Dutchman for about an hour about how most Americans hate George W. Bush. He didn't realize that. He and so many other Europeans were under the impression that because GWB was president, we all voted for him and love him.
"No, my friend," I said,"we mostly all hate the bastard." And I talked about American politics and shit for a while. It was good conversation. Mostly because I got to talk about how much I hate this administration. He was enlightened a bit. He was in for a convention about neurology and most of the people he talked to were people in healthcare and republicans and shit, you get the idea.
Then this dude shows up. A seemingly old man who just wanted a bucket of ice.
I filled his bucket of ice and asked if he wanted anything to drink.
"Well, I got stuff upstairs, but sure now that I'm here..."
"What're you drinking?" I was appreciative of his presence because I was getting tired of telling the Dutchman about how much this country sucks.
The dude that showed up was frail, small and kind of old.
"I was looking to drink a bloody cowboy," he said.
Ah, a "Bloody Cowboy". Beer and tomato juice.
I only had bloody mary mix and some fixings so I put together a grand Bloody Cowboy.
He took one sip and said it was the best he ever had.
He was from Arkansas and got stuck in Chicago because of some flooding downstate that was going to postpone his trip...I didn't ask the destination.
The Dutchman, now drunk on Johnny Walker Black started asking the questions.
"Where are you from"
"Why are you here"
"What do you do"
The small man was a horse jockey. He won 4000 out of 20000 races. He had a horse collapse on him and crush him several years ago. He had won awards. He showed us his scars on his chest that collapsed when a horse fell backwards onto him, breaking his sternum and ribs. He exposed the scar on his head where he had to have a part of his skull replaced because a horse kicked him so hard in the head.
He had to be at least fifty but he looked young. He also looked defeated.
"This train that got shut down is supposed to take me to the next horse I ride. But I'm afraid."
He started welling up in the eyes.
"This is my last chance, I have to ride this horse and win, otherwise I'm done. "
He put one of his prize trophys, a belt buckle, on the bar.
"Horses don't seem to like me anymore, but they're how I make a living."
The "Bloody Cowboy" was done.
We all looked at each other.
I turned the lights off and whispered "last call"
I poured myself a drink and the room was empty.
Piss Lady
The hours get to me, they're just a bunch of hollow empty clicks. The seconds are pinpricks and the wasted days are hammers beating on my spine. A garbage can full of crumpled up paper and snotrags are the weeks and the months require nothing more than me asking "so how much blood did I shit?" And the years? Fuck the years. The waste is bulldozer-worthy.
Today, much like every other day, I ride the bus to work. And three out of five times I manage to get on the bus with a homeless woman that stinks like a park toilet that has been shit in, puked upon and then pissed on with mold growing all around the throne. And no one cleans it for 20 years. When I get on the bus and smell this stench, I look for her and I pinpoint her. She looks like my dead grandmother. And I mean, if you exhumed the body of my dead grandmother, stench and all, add some fat, that's her.
Everyone holds their noses on the bus ride. And when she gets up to get off at the corner of Michigan and Chicago, the smell that was slightly contained by her ass is released and on days that I have a hangover I have to choke back vomiting. I pop gum and inhale through the collar of my shirt.
Today she was on the bus going to work. Many times I catch her on the bus going home. But today she was going downtown. Someone cut her hair and replaced her walking stick (a busted two-by-four) with an actual cane. Aluminum and rubber.
One night I was on the bus and everyone gravitated toward the back. Everyone had their noses covered and laughed and said "wow".
Yeah, "wow".
One guy pulled out his Axe spray and sprayed it into the little air that was in the bus and I gagged on the stench of hell and body spray. If the advertisements were true, this troll of a woman would be humping this guy's chest, but she could do nothing but drool and allow her neck to just be limp and hang and lolligag everytime the bus hit a bump. Her head is thrown back and then she tries to smile. Maybe in her mind she's on a rollercoaster back when she was a kid being happy with a father or mother next to her.
I can't imagine that this woman would want this life. And assholes like me turn it into dipshit blog fodder.
Her heart beats and she has the skill to get on the bus and pay the fare. And yet she becomes a conversation piece..
"Man this old woman stank!"
Obviously someone cleaned her up a bit because she was wearing a yellow coat that stunk of piss and sweat and rain and now she has a black coat. Still stinks but someone made an effort and then released her.
I don't know anymore. If I had any sanity of my own, I'd give her a piece and then I'd give her a mirror and my guess is that she'd like the gun to end it all.
Maybe she's happy and doesn't give a fuck.
Maybe she's taking revenge.
Maybe no one gives a fuck about this woman just like they don't give a fuck about themselves.
Maybe we should drop the equalizer bomb and she could be the next leader of the roaches.
Today, much like every other day, I ride the bus to work. And three out of five times I manage to get on the bus with a homeless woman that stinks like a park toilet that has been shit in, puked upon and then pissed on with mold growing all around the throne. And no one cleans it for 20 years. When I get on the bus and smell this stench, I look for her and I pinpoint her. She looks like my dead grandmother. And I mean, if you exhumed the body of my dead grandmother, stench and all, add some fat, that's her.
Everyone holds their noses on the bus ride. And when she gets up to get off at the corner of Michigan and Chicago, the smell that was slightly contained by her ass is released and on days that I have a hangover I have to choke back vomiting. I pop gum and inhale through the collar of my shirt.
Today she was on the bus going to work. Many times I catch her on the bus going home. But today she was going downtown. Someone cut her hair and replaced her walking stick (a busted two-by-four) with an actual cane. Aluminum and rubber.
One night I was on the bus and everyone gravitated toward the back. Everyone had their noses covered and laughed and said "wow".
Yeah, "wow".
One guy pulled out his Axe spray and sprayed it into the little air that was in the bus and I gagged on the stench of hell and body spray. If the advertisements were true, this troll of a woman would be humping this guy's chest, but she could do nothing but drool and allow her neck to just be limp and hang and lolligag everytime the bus hit a bump. Her head is thrown back and then she tries to smile. Maybe in her mind she's on a rollercoaster back when she was a kid being happy with a father or mother next to her.
I can't imagine that this woman would want this life. And assholes like me turn it into dipshit blog fodder.
Her heart beats and she has the skill to get on the bus and pay the fare. And yet she becomes a conversation piece..
"Man this old woman stank!"
Obviously someone cleaned her up a bit because she was wearing a yellow coat that stunk of piss and sweat and rain and now she has a black coat. Still stinks but someone made an effort and then released her.
I don't know anymore. If I had any sanity of my own, I'd give her a piece and then I'd give her a mirror and my guess is that she'd like the gun to end it all.
Maybe she's happy and doesn't give a fuck.
Maybe she's taking revenge.
Maybe no one gives a fuck about this woman just like they don't give a fuck about themselves.
Maybe we should drop the equalizer bomb and she could be the next leader of the roaches.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Shut Up, Redneck
"Is the bar closed?" he asked, his words were formed by an asshole on his face that some would call a mouth. And this mouth was surrounded by hair that those in the facial hair industry would call a "goatee".
"No, there's just no one here," I said as I watched baseball stats while bad club music blared out of the cheap sound system. "You need a drink?" I asked immediately perturbed by the presence of a guy who I knew was going to be a fucking dick.
"How much you charge for a JW Black?"
"9 bucks."
"Hells! I'm from West Virginia, you get that shit for 4 bucks a shot. Damn, I just got back from eating all you can eat chicken wings and pizza and all you can drink beer for 15 dollars!" He exasperated.
"Well, that doesn't change the price. I've got Dewar's in the well, $7.50." I sounded cold.
"If you pour me a good one, I'll take it," he said as his eyes lit up because a buck fifty made all the difference in the world. Thanks for the business.
"Of course you will," I said, watched a little more of the baseball scores while, like a dog he was waiting to be lead to the bar. "Let's go," I said after I saw that Boston won.
"I'm a good tipper!" he said as he took a seat.
I poured him a tight Dewar's on ice, a respectable pour and didn't charge him the additional 2 dollar "rocks" surcharge which simply means he gets a little more scotch since it's not mixed with anything.
"I used to paint houses," "I'm a smart man", "I'm a licensed...", "people don't like me because I'm smart", "hillbilly heroin", blah blah....
I stared at this man and imagined his head being smashed between two swinging logs with a shotgun up his ass. I didn't listen to any of his stories. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying simply due to the fact that the music in the bar is too loud and the last electrician to come through fucked up the volume control so I can't turn it down. Or in the case of this guy, turn it the fuck up.
He kept talking and slurping at his drink. Besides his asshole mouth surrounded by facial moss, his head was shaved and he had a gold stud in each earlobe. I prayed that he was an ignorant redneck gay guy that was just drunk until he started spouting off about his "oriental" wife who works so much she won't fuck him. Yeah, if I was a woman, I would look at this guy and my nipples would invert themselves and stretch to lengths into my chest and wrap themselves around my heart and crush it, killing me. But hopefully this woman has a plan for when this dude "accidentally" drinks too much grain alcohol and sticks his head into the blades of his lawnmower trying to cut the tip off a cheap cigar and then cuts his skull open instead. I mean shit, anything could happen.
Anyway, I digress. I'm listening to this guy as if his words are light flashes from a strobe light. I don't even bother making any sense of the man and I think he can tell. I walk away from the bar and stand in front of the television then look for an empty glass or a napkin that I can pick up.
"Damn, I got nothing," I say to myself, it was a slow night.
"Can I get another?" he says over his shoulder, to me, the bartender, the only other person in the bar, the guy that is ignoring him and supposed to be working for tips.
"That was last call, man, sorry," I said, two hours before the real "last call" was called.
"7.50," I said. He looked at me. "For the drink," I clarified, not for wasting my time or eroding my ears with your shit stories.
He proudly slapped a ten on the bar. I put it in the till and placed his change in front of him. He snatched the two bucks and left the two quarters on the bar top. "That's yours" he said smiling and then walked away.
I found a sex show on cable and watched until it was time to close.
I'm all about customer service.
"No, there's just no one here," I said as I watched baseball stats while bad club music blared out of the cheap sound system. "You need a drink?" I asked immediately perturbed by the presence of a guy who I knew was going to be a fucking dick.
"How much you charge for a JW Black?"
"9 bucks."
"Hells! I'm from West Virginia, you get that shit for 4 bucks a shot. Damn, I just got back from eating all you can eat chicken wings and pizza and all you can drink beer for 15 dollars!" He exasperated.
"Well, that doesn't change the price. I've got Dewar's in the well, $7.50." I sounded cold.
"If you pour me a good one, I'll take it," he said as his eyes lit up because a buck fifty made all the difference in the world. Thanks for the business.
"Of course you will," I said, watched a little more of the baseball scores while, like a dog he was waiting to be lead to the bar. "Let's go," I said after I saw that Boston won.
"I'm a good tipper!" he said as he took a seat.
I poured him a tight Dewar's on ice, a respectable pour and didn't charge him the additional 2 dollar "rocks" surcharge which simply means he gets a little more scotch since it's not mixed with anything.
"I used to paint houses," "I'm a smart man", "I'm a licensed...", "people don't like me because I'm smart", "hillbilly heroin", blah blah....
I stared at this man and imagined his head being smashed between two swinging logs with a shotgun up his ass. I didn't listen to any of his stories. I couldn't hear most of what he was saying simply due to the fact that the music in the bar is too loud and the last electrician to come through fucked up the volume control so I can't turn it down. Or in the case of this guy, turn it the fuck up.
He kept talking and slurping at his drink. Besides his asshole mouth surrounded by facial moss, his head was shaved and he had a gold stud in each earlobe. I prayed that he was an ignorant redneck gay guy that was just drunk until he started spouting off about his "oriental" wife who works so much she won't fuck him. Yeah, if I was a woman, I would look at this guy and my nipples would invert themselves and stretch to lengths into my chest and wrap themselves around my heart and crush it, killing me. But hopefully this woman has a plan for when this dude "accidentally" drinks too much grain alcohol and sticks his head into the blades of his lawnmower trying to cut the tip off a cheap cigar and then cuts his skull open instead. I mean shit, anything could happen.
Anyway, I digress. I'm listening to this guy as if his words are light flashes from a strobe light. I don't even bother making any sense of the man and I think he can tell. I walk away from the bar and stand in front of the television then look for an empty glass or a napkin that I can pick up.
"Damn, I got nothing," I say to myself, it was a slow night.
"Can I get another?" he says over his shoulder, to me, the bartender, the only other person in the bar, the guy that is ignoring him and supposed to be working for tips.
"That was last call, man, sorry," I said, two hours before the real "last call" was called.
"7.50," I said. He looked at me. "For the drink," I clarified, not for wasting my time or eroding my ears with your shit stories.
He proudly slapped a ten on the bar. I put it in the till and placed his change in front of him. He snatched the two bucks and left the two quarters on the bar top. "That's yours" he said smiling and then walked away.
I found a sex show on cable and watched until it was time to close.
I'm all about customer service.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Nuthin' Genius Here Pt. I
I don't get the fuck why people want to torture themselves with asshole boring jobs. Jesus, now that was genius! I suddenly sound like a gangbanger.
I often ask myself why I ever wanted to be a writer. Many will say that it really wasn't a choice at all but a curse that some are given. And while I don't want to use the word "curse", indeed, it has plagued me in many ways.
I trace back to when I was in grammar school and had to compose short stories occasionally for class. I always had the most ridiculous concepts. One story I remember in particular was about a vigilante ice cream man who rigged ice cream bars and snow cones and such with explosives not to kill kids but other ice cream men that were mixed up in some crime wave. Kinda stupid. On summer nights I would write short horror stories about aliens attacking and eyeballs that would revolt and pop themselves out of people's heads. Fast forward to high school: My stories became more violent and disturbing. I read stories in the news today about kids getting suspending for drawing "scary" pictures and whatnot and I wonder why my teachers never tagged me as suspect after I would submit a three page story about a guy fucking a severed human head or another story about a guy that would surgically remove the vaginal area of kidnapped women and throw them in a bucket and then later would of course, fuck. This morsel entitled "Bucket of Pussies" didn't earn me a high mark, but surprisingly didn't send me to a counselor either.
Anyway, my next foray into writing was when I began to dabble in love poetry when I graduated from high school. I have no idea how all of a sudden I could switch gears...well, that's a lie. I was trying to bang this chick and poem about roses can spread legs faster than a story about fucking a human head (usually). Oh well, I never did get with that chick and I canned the love poems.
In college, I stopped reading the Stephen King and Clive Barker novels and started reading Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs, all the beats and then later Celine, Sartre, Carver, Algren, Baudelaire. I took what I could from all of them. I began writing in a new style. Brooding, depressing and loathsome material. At the same time I was writing short stories about a guy who becomes the sex slave of an inflatable doll that comes alive.
But I kept writing and writing. And when I graduated from college, I had no idea what I wanted to do but keep writing. But I needed money and my job at a video store wasn't paying the bills. Especially the most important bill, the charges made at the liquor store. So I went to a job fair and got a lame job in marketing. This is where it all started to come together. My hate for working a corporate job, my interest in becoming a serious writer and fuckload of personal conflicts that jump-started a higher level of drinking and misery. I'll get to all that shit next time.
I often ask myself why I ever wanted to be a writer. Many will say that it really wasn't a choice at all but a curse that some are given. And while I don't want to use the word "curse", indeed, it has plagued me in many ways.
I trace back to when I was in grammar school and had to compose short stories occasionally for class. I always had the most ridiculous concepts. One story I remember in particular was about a vigilante ice cream man who rigged ice cream bars and snow cones and such with explosives not to kill kids but other ice cream men that were mixed up in some crime wave. Kinda stupid. On summer nights I would write short horror stories about aliens attacking and eyeballs that would revolt and pop themselves out of people's heads. Fast forward to high school: My stories became more violent and disturbing. I read stories in the news today about kids getting suspending for drawing "scary" pictures and whatnot and I wonder why my teachers never tagged me as suspect after I would submit a three page story about a guy fucking a severed human head or another story about a guy that would surgically remove the vaginal area of kidnapped women and throw them in a bucket and then later would of course, fuck. This morsel entitled "Bucket of Pussies" didn't earn me a high mark, but surprisingly didn't send me to a counselor either.
Anyway, my next foray into writing was when I began to dabble in love poetry when I graduated from high school. I have no idea how all of a sudden I could switch gears...well, that's a lie. I was trying to bang this chick and poem about roses can spread legs faster than a story about fucking a human head (usually). Oh well, I never did get with that chick and I canned the love poems.
In college, I stopped reading the Stephen King and Clive Barker novels and started reading Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs, all the beats and then later Celine, Sartre, Carver, Algren, Baudelaire. I took what I could from all of them. I began writing in a new style. Brooding, depressing and loathsome material. At the same time I was writing short stories about a guy who becomes the sex slave of an inflatable doll that comes alive.
But I kept writing and writing. And when I graduated from college, I had no idea what I wanted to do but keep writing. But I needed money and my job at a video store wasn't paying the bills. Especially the most important bill, the charges made at the liquor store. So I went to a job fair and got a lame job in marketing. This is where it all started to come together. My hate for working a corporate job, my interest in becoming a serious writer and fuckload of personal conflicts that jump-started a higher level of drinking and misery. I'll get to all that shit next time.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Bitch, I WILL hit you, if you don't shut the fuck up
Now that's a title that I'll probably use a lot. But here's the deal. This group sits down at a table and this one chick asks for a "Grape Nehi" now I'm thinking "lady look around you, this is no carnival, this isn't White Castle, there's no grape Nehi in the house." I tell her we don't have Grape Nehi and then the bitch says "you make cocktails, right?" I said yes but I don't know what a Grape Nehi drink is. "Uh, it's got like vodka and cognac, and some other stuff. Do you at least know what a lemondrop is?" she said this snidely, as if I'm some asshole. So I decided to shit on her parade. Her little "Grape Nehi" drink does exist but most bartenders don't know it by name, the concoction goes by many names but I guess that in her white trash trailer town it's called a "Grape Nehi". In my vocabulary, it means "you're trash that likes a drink that you're asshole bartender made up while taking a shit in a martini shaker...and you love it."
Anyway, I told the cunt that yeah, I know what a lemondrop is and that there are thousands of drinks and more drink names so I'm sorry if I don't know what a Grape Nehi is but what you want sounds disgusting, stupid and for a college child." And honestly when she said that is has both vodka and cognac in it I figured that the bitch just wants to get hammered. Seriously, you don't mix vodka and cognac. What an amateur slut this bitch was. Anyway, I make her a Lemondrop and it was the best damn martini she ever had. I could see her creaming her jeans from ten feet away.
Later, a friend joins her, a tranny. Clearly a dude with the biggest set of tits I have seen in a long time. As I stood behind the bar I noticed about 14 people walk into the bar and their eyes went right for those tits.
One guy orders a beer and begins "did you..." I cut him off, "yeah, I saw the tits".
Then the boyfriend of the tranny shows up. A big buffoon that probably doesn't care about fucking a dude in the ass as long as he's got tits to grab.
And quite frankly, I don't care about the tranny and the dude that fucks that ass, good for you people. I love it. Fuck, fuck and fuck some more. But that bitch, that aging sick slut that wanted the "Grape Nehi" that's who I want to watch cry after she has a few drinks and goes crazy in an alley in a city and can't figure out how to get home.
Fuck everyone. I just work here. Unfortunately.
Anyway, I told the cunt that yeah, I know what a lemondrop is and that there are thousands of drinks and more drink names so I'm sorry if I don't know what a Grape Nehi is but what you want sounds disgusting, stupid and for a college child." And honestly when she said that is has both vodka and cognac in it I figured that the bitch just wants to get hammered. Seriously, you don't mix vodka and cognac. What an amateur slut this bitch was. Anyway, I make her a Lemondrop and it was the best damn martini she ever had. I could see her creaming her jeans from ten feet away.
Later, a friend joins her, a tranny. Clearly a dude with the biggest set of tits I have seen in a long time. As I stood behind the bar I noticed about 14 people walk into the bar and their eyes went right for those tits.
One guy orders a beer and begins "did you..." I cut him off, "yeah, I saw the tits".
Then the boyfriend of the tranny shows up. A big buffoon that probably doesn't care about fucking a dude in the ass as long as he's got tits to grab.
And quite frankly, I don't care about the tranny and the dude that fucks that ass, good for you people. I love it. Fuck, fuck and fuck some more. But that bitch, that aging sick slut that wanted the "Grape Nehi" that's who I want to watch cry after she has a few drinks and goes crazy in an alley in a city and can't figure out how to get home.
Fuck everyone. I just work here. Unfortunately.
Ball Washing
Forget the title. I have been dancing around posting something today. I ask myself "do I feel about writing about another fuck knob that I served drinks to" or should I write about a bad high school memory or a dumb fight or politics or a movie I saw. Fuck it. I'm writing about nothing. I'm going to drink myself in to a coma and fall asleep. Although, here's one little pointless leftover shit crumb left to be wiped: I was listening to that Guns N' Roses song "Rocket Queen" and I remember loving that song in high school because to me it was about dating older chicks and all my girlfriends were older. But today we would recognize that those "older chicks" are called "Cougars" or as popularized by American Pie, M.I.L.F.S. So the song was really about chicks I guess like 10 years older. I don't know, fuck, I'm drunk. Why am I even bothering?
Some late night shit
Violence-
Champagne
News-
Tequila
Commentary-
Vodka
Gunshots-
Whiskey
Statistics-
Scotch
Bus ride home-
Flask, emptying
Refill
Your problems-
Gin
Horoscopes-
Rum
Car crash-
Martini
Riot-
Margarita
Shelter-
Bourbon
Cold-
Red wine
Hot-
White wine
Everyday-
Beer
Sex-
Manhattan
Love-
All of the above
With olives
And a twist
And a gun
Add kerosene
Light a match
Survivors-
Meet me
In the
Fire
Hearts-
Meet me
In the
Toilet
Ka-boom
Pierced
Love
By bathroom
Stall
Doors
Imploding
Re-load the cannon
The man is stuck
With an asshole
Full
Of ammunition
And they pull out
A fresh case
Of wicks
Champagne
News-
Tequila
Commentary-
Vodka
Gunshots-
Whiskey
Statistics-
Scotch
Bus ride home-
Flask, emptying
Refill
Your problems-
Gin
Horoscopes-
Rum
Car crash-
Martini
Riot-
Margarita
Shelter-
Bourbon
Cold-
Red wine
Hot-
White wine
Everyday-
Beer
Sex-
Manhattan
Love-
All of the above
With olives
And a twist
And a gun
Add kerosene
Light a match
Survivors-
Meet me
In the
Fire
Hearts-
Meet me
In the
Toilet
Ka-boom
Pierced
Love
By bathroom
Stall
Doors
Imploding
Re-load the cannon
The man is stuck
With an asshole
Full
Of ammunition
And they pull out
A fresh case
Of wicks
Thursday, March 6, 2008
The creation
Alright. I've resisted for a long time for doing one of these things but now I say fuck it. I'm going to punch boxes of girl scout cookies and throw pens for no reason. I'll stamp my foot and yell "why?!?!?" all the time. I'll write and write about every fucking nutsack that walks into my bar. Jesus, no one cares. Do I? I have no idea anymore. Every fucking day I stand behind a bar and listen to another asshole's story or answer questions about Chicago. The worst is when people ask me about myself. I have no interest in talking about myself. Oh Jesus goddamnit, I don't even feel like writing now, to hell with it.
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