Declaration of Independence of the Imagination and Man's Right to Madness

"Idiocy wears the veil of health; genius wears the veil of disease."

"Nothing says 'I am sorry' like a mouthful of cock."

"All poets are Philosophers; not all Philosophers are poets."

Just some cute little quotes I have come with up over the past few days (years?).

Macsen and I have been debating a whole slew of differing opinions.  It amazes me that someone can be so well educated and yet so uninformed.  We differ on so many opinions and yet have this fundamental understanding of each other. 

We got talking today (while on top of a forty foot latter) about the fundamental question of philosophy (ergo; why is there anything instead of nothing.... I forget who said this, so a little help would be appreciated.);and I suddenly took the Analytic Philosopher's mindset and kept repeating the same basic question, i.e. "Why".  Every statement he volleyed outward toward me I respond in like fashion .  I returned all of his concerns in the form of questions:

Me:  "Why is there something instead of nothing?"
Him:  "Well if there wasn't anything. there would be nothing."
"Well what is Nothing?"
"It's just nothing."
"Well what is I Nothing?"
"It is just nothing, it is the absence of something; and nothing can't exist."
"Why not?"
"Because if it did we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Are we having a conversation?"

Then it degraded into a conversation about linguistics, and whether or not you can know anything.  It got his noodle cooking.  I know it did.   Which makes me happy.  If I can get one person to start thinking about a fundamental philosophical question, it is all I ask. 

We of course reached no definitive outcome except that I love believing in God; it is just such an easy answer to any and all fundamental questions to philosophy.

Ugh.

I woke up at noon today just to validate my drinking habits.

So I have been pretty steadily drinking since then.  My last "lofty" post I submitted to a bunch of communities; I don't think that the communities understood (or didn't care) that they were actually under critical observation themselves.  I have been reading these communities for a while and, by and large, have not liked what I have read.  So I throw up a test run to decide if I was to stay with them. 

I deleted all of them off my friend's list.  I don't need a bunch of randoms telling me that I am wrong for no reason whatsoever, but it also validated my belief that, for the most part, people that say they are into philosophy and such, only say so to feel superior to others.  I must stay aware of that fact.

Moving onward:

I have been trying very hard as of late to act like I care, but it keeps coming back to me that I am just a cold, cold, cold person.

I can't even muster the energy required these days to feign caring.  I am just a void that I don't know how to fill up.

I have thrown myself back into the world of thought and literature.  I find myself eating up books and good thinkers.  I fear though that if you aren't either of those, or maybe a good drinking buddy, I could give a fuck about you.

I want to be surround by people that I more intelligent then myself, I want to drown in other's genius; and to try to have a conversation with some one about their day or about the fucking weather just seems like my soul will up and die right under my flesh.

Maybe it is dead and I am the last to realize it.

That really wouldn't shock me these days.  I already feel like I am rotting in the sun.  Just a corpse soaking up the sun's rays.  Slowly my internal organs burst out filth and vile.  Watching this all happen from a lofty position, I just don't care enough to scoop up my entrails and slink into the woods to die like a good jackal, far, far, far away from the clean world around me.

Piff.

So very emo.

I hate these post more then I hate when people recite what they did with their day.

Bleeding heart/vagina entries are so trite and highschool and yet I find myself writing them more often then not.

Whatever though; the booze numb me to even my own distaste for whining.  I want to write a chapter in a book but I have been suffering for so long with writer's block, I cannot even muster lines inside of my physical journal.  Every time pen touches paper I think it is trite; I can only update this journal, because, come on, I could give a fuck what a bunch of my friends and randoms read.

HAhaaaaaaa.

I just want to put a good sentence together; I want to feel like I did years ago.  Writing and thinking.  Throwing myself against some impossible question, forgetting about food or drink or sex, or anything else that the body wants, I just want my body to whither while my mind evolves.

Is that so much to ask?

"The body is disturbing element..."
"The intellectual is someone who has found something more interesting then sex."

I am going to try to give up masturbation...

Spamboy doubts my genius; so for the record, I am still a genius.  Of the highest magnitude!

I can't think of anything deeper to say; I have a lot I would like to talk about but must refuse myself from such trite drivel.  So without any thing more to say...

I bid you adieu...

With that lofty entry out of the way, not to mention the four plus hours of time spent within it (to make sure I used correct terminology and such), I feel I can just drivel for a minute to expunge my mind of these concepts that have always attempted to systematically eat my mind out from within.

I believe I am drunk, well if not drunk at least well on the way to being so.

I bought a Bukowski today; that always does me dirty.  I had to procure a bottle of vodka shortly there after, shortly thereafter implying that I got slightly lost behind a girl in heels with a cute ass for three or four seconds.  After the vodka, and becoming disgusted by the girl in heels (her conversation revolved around her cellphone, or myspace, or a boy, or whatever the fuck it is girls talk about that I could give a flying fuck about and reminds me that I would rather be single for the rest of my life then have to have a conversation about such trivial matters; sex should always be levied against the inevitable conversations.  If you can't talk philosophy or religion with a chick no orgasm is going to be truly worth it.) and scuttle away with my little care package, Bukowski, cat food, and a bottle of vodka (I'd like to believe Bukowski himself wold be proud of Herr Narrator), I go to the corner shop to get a twelve pack, it's four in the afternoon on a Sunday.

I want to talk more but Macsen has returned to the domicile so I must entertain his and I's insanity.

Sitting in-front of this blank screen, packing a single cigarette for an incredibly long time, taking long drags of my beer bottle, thinking about the vodka chilling in the freezer, trying to come up with some sort of introductory sentence to begin my latest of latest tirades; this will have to suffice.

Having a particularly beautiful Bukowskian day.  The sun irradiating my left half with it's thermo-nuclear reactions from millions of miles away makes ancient cellular receptors tingle as they begin to convert solar energy into heat and vitamin D to fuel my biochemical machine so that I can pound keys laid on top of a circuit board causing a complete circuit to form and telling the electronic brain, housed inside this plastic shell, to output a specific series of Ones and Zeros onto specific pixels to display to me the character that was recently pressed by my finger-tip, and,  subsequently, fill in this blank form used to upload a text document onto the internet with a certain url that can be aimed at by any computer with the ability to receive bits of information sent out of the, seemingly, chaotic radio wave spectrum.

Not to mention the eight pounds of organic material that, theoretically, is producing the initial thought that is transmitted through a series of neural nets and synapses that travel down my arm, evoking specific muscle-groups to contract and release to allow my eyes, shoulders, back, arms, biceps, forearms, wrist, hands, and fingers to work in a harmonious cacophony of action to produce each keystroke within the set parameters of my memories recollection of what I believe to be the commonly accepted version of English that a portion of people on the world can read and comprehend enough to offer...

You get the point.

I just finished this book ("Cryptonomicon" by Neal Stephenson) and it has rattled loose a couple of old ideas in my head; most notably Platonic Ideas. 

I taught myself about them, at least three lifetimes ago (five or six years ago, but it feels like an eternity has lapsed between then and now), but had all but forgotten what they actually meant until a certain point in this book.  The book is extremely math heavy, or at least subject matter is math-heavy (he doesn't force much actual math done your throat which I appreciated.), and at one point he references Platonic Ideals and it sends me reeling.  Like a wave crashing in against the rocks of my mind I remember it all; I get what Platonic Forms/Ideas are all over again, but this time it has a tangibleness to it, a tactile feel, something I can hold on to and use like any other tool I have encountered.

This sets my mind spinning; I find myself again staring at leaves and the patterns of the trees production of them, I stare at the mold in my shower and notice an odd harmony between the halves, and then like wildfire spreading across a Californian forest, molesting and destroying everything in it's wake, it turns back onto myself. 


Using a broad brush, Platonism is, roughly, the difference between Universals and Particulars, whereas one is tangible and, theoretically, knowable, the other is lofty and unknowable. 

If you subscribe to the idea that everything in nature can be represented by a Mathematical Ideal (i.e. a string of numbers or characters that represent, implicitly, the object under scrutiny.), which I am, more often then not, inclined to ascribe to; then I myself am merely a string of mathematical computations that when totaled up, not only explain away all of my behavior, but also can, conceivably, extrapolate outward to what I might do.

Mathematically speaking, this is merely Platonism, maybe even Post-Platonism (which my memory fails me at this moment as to what is actually means), with an even more abstract concept at the heart of everything.  Whereas (to use the trite example), Plato talks about how we can see many different types of trees but we still have this broad idea of what a tree is supposed to look like, for instance; (the well read philosophers reading this will hopefully get this little homage) if presented with, let's say, a duck, and someone hands you this object that appears to be of living flesh and blood with all the normal characteristics of a duck and tells you it is a tree, most, if not all of us, would say "no, this is a duck". 

Let's try to take that idea a step backwards; you have never encountered a duck in real life, you have been told about them only from second hand accounts and have no working knowledge of what a "duck" is in-and-of-itself.  You would still posses an Idea of what a duck is and would not believe that, although, you were handed an object, and told it was a tree but did not have any of the characteristics that you have come to know as a tree, in fact, it was a tree.  Whether you necessarily equate it to that of a duck either, is a matter of conjecture that I am not prepared to delve into at this moment, but simply to state, that you have an Idea of a tree that exists outside of "actual" trees and that is this crux of Platonism.

With that out of the way, let me return to how this applies to Mathematics:

Mathematics states that everything in nature can be broken down into a string of numbers and characters that represent any given natural phenomenon.  All of nature is governed by the logical system, that I personally believe is summed up best within Peano's Postulate, that some give the header of "Physics".  All Physics is talking about is an ideal that works under given conditions, it is not necessarily always correct, but it is a median from which to start with the specifics.  Mathematics is an abstraction from the world around; it is a purely conceptual idea that exist parallel to this physical existence.  Mathematics can represent physical objects but can never, itself, be a physical object.  It is the purest example of the difference between Platonic Forms and Ideals, or Universals v Particulars.

With the next part out of the way let us enter into the home stretch, and, arguably, the hardest part; a little Quantum Mechanics:

Quantum Theory states (Quantum Theory being a sub, maybe sub sub, devision of Physics) that atoms are more likely to appear in places under observation; as if the human mind "locks" them into place when observing a given object.  If not under observation atoms have a habit of doing whatever it is they feel like doing, they do not necessarily group together to form coherent forms that are recognizable.  Atoms appear to move in a probabilistic pattern, i.e. that they could be in a given location given a period of time.

There is still mathematic proofs and formulas that, theoretically, can, at least, predict atomic movements.  This is not to forget that obviously a large group of atoms have solidified into an overall structure that many would point to and say that is a tree, or that is a duck, or that is Josh. 

Let us now begin to delve into my initial question:

If I am merely a grouping of atomic particles that move based on some sort of physics (that might not be fully understood yet, but one day, I do not doubt, will be understood), physics being an abstraction of reality that can represent any given natural phenomenon as a string of numbers and characters which can then be used to explain observable outcomes of a confluence of events, and, also used to extrapolate, at the very least, probable outcomes up other specific circumstances; am I real?

Refining the question more; am I real or am I merely a Platonic Ideal of "A Person Called Josh"?  I fear it becomes "wishy-washy" at this point (I have to revert to using Aristotelian colloquial); do I represent myself, "I" in the Freudian or Descartes sense (the "dues ex machina"), insofar that not only do I shape the reality outside of myself but also keep myself "in place" (at an atomic level) by being the Primary Observer?  Or am I (as Skinner or Newton (and to a lesser degree, Einstein) would have me be) merely a mathematical formula applying itself to other mathematical formulations and creating ripples through out the ether of "everything" (the universe, if you prefer it more)?

To bring the argument around; am "I" a Universal or a Particular?  Which implications spiral outward to; am I a free-agent or can I only choose from a "repertoire of behavior" given to a certain situation?

From a religious mindset I still offer up the abstraction of the mind-body-soul; which could just be the Catholic in me copping out of the question, just offering up some vaguely abstract concept to explain away any question that feels as though it is too big to be answered.  I do feel as though there is some merit to the idea of the soul if nothing else to argue the recently rising Quantum Mechanics question: which again is; if atoms need an observer to "stay put" but every part of me (that eight pounds of gray organic matter we call a brain is still merely atoms congealed together) is merely being held together, pardon the term but, by "the Grace of God", then who is the observer? 

Either there is a God that is observing me under a preexisting set of conditions or there is a "me" that exist outside of atoms and reality.  Either I am god or else there is a God.  My, very human, vanity would prefer the idea that I am the Primary Observer, that something within me is an abstraction from the Platonic Forms, that within me lies something that exist parallel to the physical world that is constantly aware of the world around me and, in particular, always aware of my personal aspects.  I, coming from a religious household (almost say this unconsciously), believe that "I" am in possession of a soul (or more aptly: my soul is in possession of a physical representation of what some would call Josh).  Replace the word soul for anything else and the statement, at least to me, still stands; call it the Primary Mover, The Immortal Observer, The First, The Alpha, The Tao, Nirvana, whatever.  It remains though; that something has to be observing us (Mathematically speaking), which, I believe can only force people to either believe in a God or in themselves as god.

I forget the taste of your sweat
Or the scent of your fresh blood.
The memories pile-up together,
Laying one upon the other.
Who, or what, are you to me now?
Now that all is left are memories,
Jumbled and distorted by time,
Yellowing like pages in a book.
The curvature of your waist,
Your face on a moonlit night,
The feeling I get when we kiss,
How your weight used to feel;
These are merely abstractions.
I believe they happened once,
Once upon a time, so long ago,
What are you to me years later?
Glorified, exulted, sanctified,
I have carved you out of stone,
Permanent and immutable,
I made you out of dirt and clay.
You are my creation, my sin.
I hold these vague memories,
Hold them up to the heavens
Pleading for their destruction.
Still I know tomorrow will come
Ushering with it another salvo,
Another chance to deify you
Eighty-six thousand chances.
The cancer that grows hidden
Deep within this shell of a man.
Your memory eats me away,
Stripping me of moving onward.
I wish I could excrete you
Let you seep out of my pores
Like some kind of diseased puss,
Allow to you pour out of my soul.
Who are you now I wonder?
What are you to me any more?
A collection of vague memories
That I cling to with the dearest life.
The color of your hair or your eyes?
How far you came up on my chest?
What your laugh sounded like?
Our first kiss or night together?
I can remember none of these.
All my memories centered squarely
Around this one central idea;
I was a better person with you.
What were you even then to me?
Everything you were is nothing now.
You have no matter, nor depth.
You have become one dimensional.
I want you out of my entire being.
To purge you out of my soul,
That would be ideal to me now.
I want to watch your memory die.

I am just so socially-inept these days; I want to be where the party is, well at least a part of me wants to be where the party is, but the larger portion just wants to be around people I know, people I trust, people that I can be comfortable around (i.e. get blackout drunk around), and those kinds of people are in short supply out here.

I am walking down the street with Macs, who, God love 'em, is trying desperately to get me to come out of my shell; trying so hard to get me to spark a conversation with someone, anyone, and I cannot do it.  A part of me screams in my head, screams and yells for me to return to my old ways, come back to the guy that would say whatever he wants to anyone he wants, but then this greater portion justifies my shyness by saying "I am not drunk enough to be that guy." 

The whole block, the whole street, is alive with action.  It's pulsing with parties and people, all I have to do is pick the party I want to goto.  That's all Macs demands of me.  He makes an ultimatum that "either you [I] pick it or I [you] pick it!"  He's not doing this in a bad way, I know he is merely doing what I have asked him to do, not in so many words, but he has picked up on the subtly of my words.  When I say that I want to go out and have more fun I mean that I want someone to force me to exit my shell and indulge my asshole vein.  Macs has seen the life-blood of my asshole side, has seen the beating heart of every negative quality I posses, has heard me go into great length on why I do certain actions that most would find of questionable moral fortitude; him and I have discussed, very naturally (I might add), why I feel I am the way I am; I fear he is the first person to ever "get it". 

He does the things I wish I could do again.  He does what I used to be able to do.  Now I feel so wrapped up by the drugs and booze that my sober self is bound by this idea that "if I am not fucked-up, then that is just inappropriate."  That's what I fear the problem is; that for so long I was fucked-up and I did these fucked up things, that now I can only do these things when fucked-up.  I have conditioned myself to be an addict, I fear.

I clearly remember thinking "if I were drunk I would talk to her", but to this day I still don't know my limits.  Either I am warming-up, i.e. just getting the first five to six in me, or am fucked-up, i.e. getting the last 7 to twenty-six into me.  If I only knew my limit I think I would be better at all this flirting and conversing bullshit.  I might actually come off as a guy that wants to learn random facts about you, that wants to know what you wanted as a birthday present on your six birthday.  Instead I come across as some aloof douche bag.

You wouldn't believe how many random, random, facts I know about everyone I have ever met.  I store away all trivial knowledge, that's just who I am, when it comes to a person, especially someone I actually like, I store away all these little details that you automatically think that I will forget.  No, I don't know your birthday, or maybe not even you favorite color, but I remember what you wanted for you birthday for the past eight years, and I remember your dad got you a bike that was your favorite color when you were twelve.  Why does this not count for anything?

And yet; and yet!  Somehow I feel like I have been a positive influence on Macs.  I feel like I have brought him out of his shell, that I had a hand in making him talk to randoms or even get pissed at his girlfriend.  That by virtue of me being me around him that somehow he has changed for the better.  When I first moved here the first week I was here he said maybe all of eight sentences to me, cut to eight, or nine, or ten (or how ever the fuck many months I have been in this fucking hole of a place) months later and he is screaming to any passerby "where's the party?"  I always walk away,stand a few feet off, and divert my gaze, he hasn't noticed yet, hasn't caught why I look away, viz. to hide my ear-to-ear smile.  I love it when he does that shit.

He continues to look at me like the guy I could, and might want to be.  He continues to think of me as the guy he first met, the guy that would be who he is whether you like it or not, the guy that says the most inane, insane things, but also knows that I say a lot, a-fucking-lot, to sponsor a reaction.  He is one of the few people that has allowed me to grow as a person while till hoping that I will synthesis into the person I want to be.  Most only see me as I was, or as I should be.  Neither idea gives me much leeway.  Either I am living up-to some fabricated ideal you have of me or am trying to live down the possibility that I could be an amazing person.

Somehow I had fun with him tonight; I enjoyed knowing he was having an adventure as I sulked back to our apartment, with two recently purchased forties.  I liked knowing that at least one of us was out having an adventure, and that tomorrow is another day and, potentially, another day closer to my exodus of my shell.  What was a tad irksome was that four houses down from the "party" that I left him at, I saw the house party I wanted to be at; still raging, still going strong, playing music I liked, scantily clad young ladies, overly masculine guys, beer pong, a keg, gel, and axe body spray, you know, "my kind of scene".  If he had been with me, I'd be there now.

Instead I am at home updating this, my livejournal.  Some of it might have to do with a girl, I am vaguely aware of this, somewhere deep inside me a little voice might be repeating her name.  I know that when Macs started talking to these two chicks, obviously my type (toned, tight, and tanned!  FTW!) I walked away cause I was afraid she'd find out and I'd get in trouble.  Leaving me with a biter-sweet feeling of disgust at myself for letting her in that deep and a sensation much akin to joy(?) that I care about someone enough to disdain other bitches.  An awkward amalgam, I am aware, but there it is.

I am drunk.

This entry sounds really gay.

I guess I am oot!

If my father is my model of God and God is Everything (Everything with a capital e), then what is my father?  Subsequently, what am I if I contain only half of my father's genetic material and, presumably, only one-third of his personality (rough estimate, basing one-third on him, one-third on my mother, and one-third on unique experience that I, and I alone, have experienced: although it might be more accurate to assume he is a one-fifth of my personality if I take into account my two sisters and mother, but this train of thought would arguably lead me to calculating the amount of time I have spent with everyone I have ever met and then assigning each a ratio to total time alive, I would also have to factor in depth of time spent together because, I assume, that time shared with my mother and father at my early development was more profound then, say, time spent at a bar with some random guy, arguable on both fronts so for the sake of comprehension he will total one-third of my personality.) where does that leave me in the Grand Scheme? 

If viewed from another angle; what does this say about my father?  If I worship a jealous, wrathful, all-powerful God, what then is my father but some amalgam of these same tendencies?  Whereby, extension, fifty-percent of my being would be composed of wrath, jealousy, and omnipotence, at least at a genetic level, and one-third of personality would be composed of the same elements; besides wrath and jealousy, which all humans are capable of, I am most definitely not omnipotent (I am strictly speaking in terms of being able to create without expounding an equivalent amount of energy.).  Where then does my conception of God arise?

I am not prone to believing that I culled all my information on God from a single book, i.e. The Bible (I am, at the very least, open-minded enough to read certain parts of The Bible literally and other parts as metaphor trying to explain complex ideas to "simplistic people", the story of Creation for example, which presented a large gap in logic for me when God enters the Garden and asks Adam why he is hiding, an all-knowing God would already have the answer so why would He ask?).  I had to have created certain aspects of God independent of my father and independent of the Church, but where could these ideas have come from?

How am I capable of creating a "new" and personal view about God?  Where does the sensory data come from that would shape my opinion (if you are of the empiricist mind-set)?  Where do the differences in my opinion and the Church's opinion arise?  I have had no first hand dealings with God but have an entire set of differing beliefs then what I have been fed and taught by my parents and upbringing, viz. the Catholic religion.  Why do I believe that God is simply the Universe and the "unexplainable" attraction of certain atoms to other specific atoms?  Or to simplify that statement; why do I believe that the Universe has developed a consciousness and sometimes people (prophets or scientist) pierce the veil of appearances and can gain knowledge, whether of a "spiritual nature" or of "physical knowledge"? 

What about me makes me believe, even, that there is no difference between "spiritual" and "physical" knowledge?  My father most certainly does not hold this same opinion, and yet he is my model for God, what then does that mean of God?  Is God self-doubting?  My father is not self-doubting, much the opposite.  I have now driven myself to a paradox; I believe in a God that is modeled off of my father, the God I believe in differs from my father on key components, the God my father believes in differs from my God on key components, my father would say that my God doesn't exist, which would imply my father doesn't exist, which would imply God doesn't exist (by extension); what then is the answer?  Where have I developed my belief in God if not from first-hand experience, albeit unwittingly so?

"I am the king of filth and violence."

I blew off work for the third day in a row today, no call, no show.  I assume I will have some explaining to do, I feel slightly guilty for bailing on the guys but I just don't want to be at work.  I don't want to leave my house.

Depression, I guess.  I don't know why.  I don't even know if I am really "down" or not, I just feel so lonely and isolated from the world, and...I kind of like it.  I am sort of enjoying the fact that no one knows me out here, it suddenly occurs to me that I can fuck with people out here more then I could back home.  The fact that I am leaving soon only adds to the idea that I am whoever I want to pretend to be today.

Suffice to say, I am lying.  I am spinning fantastic stories about all manner of things; one day I am a father, the next gay, the day after I am going to divinity school.  I just keep reinventing myself.  Pretending to be kind or compassionate, or unaffected and detached, hot-tempered or level-headed, just this completely fabricated being that I only happen to look like and we share a common name.

I don't even know how this got started.  I don't remember when I started to just pretend to be all these different people. 

Piff.

I am cold.  Like shivering cold.

Floating, floating, floating down this river of life.  Macsen is corrupting me with apathy and detachment, I just don't car about perceptions any more.  Our house is a minimalist wet dream, we escape it whenever we can, normally at night, out to bars and social gatherings. 

I feel more like the drunk philosopher, the drug-addled sage; spouting random quotes and profound thoughts at the drop of a hat.  I find myself repeating Latin quotes that I know no one understands.  I reference the "Wisdom of the Buddha", the "Tao Te Ching", "Siddhartha", "Upanishads", Vedas, Sutras, Scriptures, Stoic philosophy, Existential philosophy, for every situation I have a quote.

"There is no you, there is no me."

April eleventh, that date feels like it should be significant to me, but can't remember for the life of me why.

What is going on this world?  What is happening to our culture?  It is slowly being destroyed by Youtube and Google.  We are all scitzos with A.D.D. with all of our multi-tasking and digital knowledge. 

What has happened to our local librarians?  They are relegated to the menial task of calling people to collect books or monies for lost books, they are in charge of janitorial services and pointing to the computers.  There was a time when the librarian was the most well-informed person in the library.  They actually understood the fucking Dewey Decimal system, which eludes, dear reader, even this most noble of narrators. 

This whole cultural shift away from analog and towards digital bothers me.  It makes me sad to note that my children will miss out on a whole realm of human interactions simply because technology made it ineffectual.  Stupid things too, like dealing with the DMV, it is already more streamlined then it was when my father would drag little Josh with him to deal with the impossibly long lines and ill-tempered uninformed help.  Even the local store is being replaced by mega-giant-super-stores, yea, it's neat that I can grocery shop, buy a TV, pick-up some clothes, and get a can of paint all in one store, what happened to talking to someone that knew their trade and could help to stear you in the direction you want to go?

Ask a kid in Wal-Mart any question and they stare at you blankly, go into a butcher shop and ask the butcher about a cut of meat, he can tell you all sorts of shit.

Fuck it, Macs showed up.

It's obvious HotTopicCunt wants to fuck, it's obvious.  All I have to do is keep my fucking mouth shut and pretend to not notice, that's it.  All I have to do is act aloof and then her and I will fuck.  I can't do it.  She says one comment to me that implied I was of diminished intelligence and I know right then that I won't be fucking her any time soon.

"How my pride love to flyeth away."

It's better though, I guess.  She was going to move into my spare room for a few weeks until she got her feet under her, but I am really starting to think I don't even want a room mate, outside of Macs.  If we do get a roomie I want it to be a dude, I remember why I am single; bitches are fucking ape shit nuts, they make my craziness pale in comparison.

I am sitting in HotTopicCunt's room, her and I are high on morphine, I am drinking a bottle of red wine, and it hits me all at once.  I fall into such a pleasant calmness.  Awash in red warmth and calmness.  I found my Bukowski high that I had been searching for.  It was so nice to just sit in the corner watching HotTopicCunt pack.  Just watching her face and body move while I gulped down sweet tasting red wine.

Today's menu consist of Blush wine and "Honey Bunches of Oats", which by the by is like crack to me (one of the few  cereals I fucking love).

I am doing my spring cleaning today, so I am stripping the entire house down to bare and scrubbing everything, oh, and I am going to get bombed on wine.

My cellphone is still broken.

I am still an asshole of some repute.

I also remembered that I am a tough son-of-a-bitch when it comes down to it.  When it comes down to it, I will grab my shit and head off in a direction.  I might not know where I am going or how far away it is but once my pride is insulted I will leave, I will find my way.  So fuck you.

I always find my way, I always land on my feet.

Oh, I reading Camus "The Plague", boring, boring, boring.  Much so.

I read "Rant" by Chucky P. weird book, but I think I liked it, it's no "Survivor" but good good, yes yes.

Yossarian lives.

Where was I?  When did this all start?  Manic depression?  Prostate cancer?

"I don't want to fuck her boyfriend!"  I don't know why people always tell me about a boyfriend when I am talking about fucking the girl.  What the fuck.  It's even worse when the exchange is "God, I'd fuck the shit out of her."  "She has a kid."  "What the fuck man?!  I don't wanna fuck her kid!"

Perverts, the whole lot of em.

I am arguing with this one bitch whether more chicks die of heart disease then breast cancer.  I wanted to punch her in the fucking mouth.  More men die from heart disease then women and that's probably because all the stress bitches put on dudes.  Maybe I should just stay single forever.

Even though I do want an adult relationship.  I wanna date a chick for awhile and then have a talk about being boy/girlfriend.  I don't want to just go on three dates with a chick and have her start calling me her boyfriend, I don't want to fuck her and then suddenly become her boyfriend, shit I definitely don't want to make out with some chick and then turn around to find out she is telling everyone that her and I are "together".

I hate that word "together".  What the fuck does it even mean?  Whatever happened to the natural progression of events?

Blood red nightmares fade into bitter sweat dreams where I wake up with a name hanging from my lips like a kiss I never delivered.

I don't know which one is worse; dreaming about a relationship that I don't have or being eviscerated nightly.  At least with vivisection I know my real heart is being ripped out of my chest, the alternative makes me feel like I have lost my heart upon waking.  Spending hours and days in my dream world, talking and laughing with this perfect girl just to wake up and be alone.  Well except Kittle, but he doesn't count.

I elected to work alone tonight.  Just me and this one bay, quite a deal of work but nothing I cannot handle.  I've got my Zune on and I am singing along, loudly, then suddenly a sappy bullshit pop song comes on, something by Maroon 5 ("Goodbye, Goodnight", I think.) and bam, I am getting all misty eyed, thinking that maybe I did do something wrong with the whole Date-Night thing.  I don't like that, guilt is for pussies.

Time goes by and I am plugging like along, pouring sweat, covered in filth, my muscles aching and then another Maroon 5 song comes on, "Tangled", and I just get hammered by this long progression of the same old shit, I always push people away.  The more I am forced to open up and care fore someone the more I test them to make them break.

I am not saying this is a bad thing, per se.  When I am alone I think I am a pretty good guy, it's just when other people enter the picture that it gets all muddied up.  I just don't think I have developed the correct social skill set as of yet.  I have the charisma, I have the ability to relate to anyone, and I can get over being shy at the drop of a hat; but it's the part after that, the next couple of meetings that always scare the shit out of me.  Whenever I have plans to hang out with someone I kind of know, or the first time that person and I actually hang out alone, I freak.  I always think we will run out of stuff to talk about, I worry I will offend them, I worry that they will just lose interest in chilling with me.

I have had panic attacks about this.

All at once, I am sitting down in this bay at work thinking that maybe I should apologize to Date-Night, apologize to her, apologize to everyone, I feel like I should just say "sorry" until my tongue falls off.  I keep coming up with the reasons for my behavior, and for a minute or two I actually feel like changing, then something shiny will catch my attention and then, piff, revelation gone.

These thoughts are bouncing around my head for the rest of the night, even while I was flirting with this girl that came into work, I keep thinking that maybe I did do something  wrong with Date-Night, maybe.  I mean going with the flow does piss people off, no one wants to chill with someone that is just "letting life happen, seeing where it goes".  That's a bullshit cop-out, philosophically and spiritually speaking.  That I can't really help though, I can't help it if I think the bulk of humanity takes itself way too seriously.  I don't think I should have to either.  It's my personal opinion and should be allowed it.

She thought I was too serious too.  That bothers me and at the same time amuses me.  One out of like a hundred people I meet believe I take things too seriously, and they keep saying it until I can't take it and then I take shit seriously.  It's when the "fucks" flow like water and I aim for the jug.  It's when I start getting serious that I start to go into my rages...yea, she put me into a rage a couple days ago.  The kind of rage where people that know me don't talk to me and stay out of my way, people that don't know me back away from me, and the growls are bestial and very real.

I don't lose my temper much, I have trained myself to at least walk away or get drunk, but every now and then I lose my temper.  I believe it takes alot, but those that have set me off probably would disagree.  The last time I lost my temper was with Tammy.  So over a year ago.  I lost my temper on Date-Night, lost it big time, went out of my way to hurt her feelings, to whittle her down, to break her spirit.  At the time I felt it justified, after tonight I am not so sure.  Not sure if I played the cards right. 

I leave work, finally though.  Walking to catch a bus that I am sure I missed, my music is playing the perfect songs, the clouds are parting to greet the rising sun, the rain clouds are fleeing the oncoming morning, and this wonderful dichotomy spins together; this beautiful picturesque scene unfurls before me.  For a moment I find bliss, nirvana even.

I float along pursuing a fate I know will find me.  Just moving forward, watching the birds soar, looking at the reflections in the puddles, I feel my own physical pain and embrace that.  I am happy.

I get to my bus stop and plop down and start meditating.  I feel the whole universe breathe through me and my happiness is to elation levels.  Five minutes into the bus ride- right when other people got on, my whole high was fucking ruined.  I kept thinking bad thoughts about them, I kept thinking they were thinking bad thoughts about me.  I kept seeing people not give a fuck about anyone else but themselves.  Shifty eyes and jerky movements.  I am not smiling at this point, I am scowling, laying out an aura that just screams "Stay away from me".  The people oblige me.

What does all this mean?  Nothing.

Jack shit.

Absolute Zero.

I won't apologize.  I won't change.  I'll just keep floating through my life from one relationship to the next without much concern or cares, "everything is transitory", right?  That's what I always say, ain't it?  I am transitory.  My moods are transitory.  My whole personality is transitory.  A fuck today, a god tomorrow.  Who knows how the dice will fall. 

Just keep plugging away....

I am sitting here looking through my last.fm page and clicking through to other people's profiles and I come across this one of a chick with a band name tattooed on her...nope, I don't get that.  I am aware that I have a band tattoo, my little Fear factory tattoo on my leg, I remember, I remember.  I got that as a joke, kind of.  It was more about being twenty, having an expendable income, drinking, and getting inked.  It was a period in my life I want to remember not so much the band.

Especially Nine Inch Nails.  Macs and I went out last night and as we are walking I start to prod him about his love of NIN.  I start teasing his fanaticism.  He is a good guy and I always enjoy drinking with him, even though, invariably, we will split up at some point in the night and not know what happened to the other.

I woke up way too early.I am not hung-over, not yet, but I can feel it coming.  I wanted to sleep through into tonight, my plans obviously changed.  So yes, at nine o'clock in the morning I am drinking.  Yes, I am ok with that.

Visceral Rush:    but what are names to transitory characters?
Visceral Rush:    if i named everything that popped up on my radar my whole life would be awash with names
Visceral Rush:    faces are hard enough
Andie:    good point i guess
Visceral Rush:    i can barely remember my partners by hair color
Visceral Rush:    when bitches go from blond to brown i don't know whether to count them twice or not
Visceral Rush:     i am not a nice person
Visceral Rush:    i am really starting to realize this

My cellphone broke so I was reduced to drunk instant messaging as opposed to drunk dialing.  I am fourteen all over again.

Last night Macs and I end up at The Blue Tusk, this bullshit local bar full of snobby, wannabe upscale, fucks that order "goose and bull" or have to look at a fucking menu to order a beer...not my kind of bar but, you know, top notch puss ...so it becomes my kind of bar.  Regardless, I almost get punched by this fat homophobic fuck for, literally, no good reason, I keep losing Macs and end up slamming down drinks until I check out. 

He tries to get me to have a Josh night, tries to get me to pop off, and I try, I get ready, I unbutton my shirt, loosen my tie, I am ready.  I end up at a table by myself falling asleep.  I make my exit.

I need to vomit but can't.  I need to do laundry but won't.  I need to clean but refuse to.

My cat is on my god damn nerves.  He's being a little asshole.

I ran into Hook-Up-Chick last night, I pretend not to see her, fiddle with my Zune to look busy.  How does one look busy at a bar?  I don't know I try to anyways.

This beer taste like ass.  I want some good cheap wine, want a nice Bukowski wine buzz, due to archaic blue collar laws no liquor store is open at 9:17 a.m. on a Sunday.  Fucking Puritans.

Immortality; the promise of youth.

HotTopicCunt and me are sitting there, blowing painkillers, discussing life's manifold possibilities.  I am overcome for a second by just how beautiful she really is, when she does these little stupid things, putting on lip gloss drives me fucking nuts, the way she just rakes it across her slightly too big lips, she lathers the shit on with such unconscious beauty.  Regardless, I tell her she looks beautiful, she blushes tells me to shut up and in the same breath invites me to spend the night, I have to work.  She offers to stay up till four in the morning to pick me up and drive me back to her place.  Work runs late and I forget to call.  Piff, whatever.

She's also a milf.  Just so we all are well informed.

I am going through my books trying to find something to read, I want some existential philosophy, but all I have is either abridged or Sartre, I want some Camus, or even to reread "The Unbearable Lightness Of Being".  Alas I have neither.  I think I have "The Stranger" floating around somewhere, but I could be get that confused with "The Unbearable...", they all kind of merge into one long monologue of blahness, so it is hard to keep them separate.

I am trying to read "Superheros and Philosophy" but it sucks, it bores me.  It is so intro to philosophy it makes me nauseas. 

I need a shower

skull fucking the virgin mary used to be my answer, then was coat hanger abortions, and now, now I don't remember, probably other people's wives, apparently that shit aint funny!

All the anger just seeped out of me while I slept I guess, cause I awoke this morning to just this deep sense of dread.  This desire to just stay in bed and let the world keep spinning.  I tried to avoid contact with anyone at work tonight.  My coworkers forced me to engage them.

On break I seclude myself, while out in the open.  I do this completely with body language and "Siddhartha" (if you haven't read that book yet, kill yourself), I just flip to the section where he is with the Samanas in the woods, right before he meets the Buddha.  I read this chapter like the fucking Bible, pausing every few lines to really let it sink in.  I think I have read this book maybe nine times from cover-to-cover, and yet still I am amazed at how I feel like no matter the crisis, no matter the situation, "Siddhartha" is there for me telling me what I need to hear.

I guess I am depressed, I guess.  I just feel so drained.  I would cry if I knew how, I would scream if I knew I could stop, I don't, I wouldn't, so I plugged along.  I start to unload on Honeybunny over breakfast tonight.  Start telling him how I am just so drained, so tired, so cold inside.  I confide in him that I don't know how to stop pissing people off, the harder I try not to piss people off the more I do it.  The more apt people are to be angry at me.  I worked so long to become this guy I am and in the course of a day I suddenly hate everything about me.  What is crawling back into "Siddhartha" really gonna do?  What is crawling back into a bottle going to do for me?  Push this moment of enlightenment off for another few years.

I am going to wallow in this despair for a while. Allow it to distort my mind.

By the by, apparently not good fodder for dinner conversation.  HotTopicCunt indulged me while I spewed out my half thoughts and musings.  She didn't mind listening to me vomit out a whole back-and-forth between me and this other chick.  Didn't mind me getting angry at nothing.  Didn't mind me not listening to her.  She didn't even mind when I just slumped forward lost in thought.

She didn't mind.

When I told her I couldn't spend the night.  Then she minded.  Slutever.

I need to sleep before the sun comes up.

To even acknowledge it, would be to give it credence, and that would make it seem as though I cared. So.

I feel even more lupine then normal. More hunched, more lean and angry, more like I am on the prowl waiting to lunge at an exposed throat. I want to make something bleed. I want to hurt someone, I want to hospitalize someone for no reason. I want to rape and pillage, I want to take away every ounce of innocence around me. I want to corrupt the world with my bile, I want to make the whole planet drown in my blood and will.

The start of a break-down. The beginnings of my mind coming unglued. I am positive about it now. I am going to go a little more insane and do all sorts of ill advised things, first and foremost: Drugs. Copious, copious amounts of drugs. I will drown out the fucking voices in my head with booze and pills. I cannot listen to them any longer, not one second more.

It's strange to note that the more self-destructive I become the more I feel that it is just "right".  That I am supposed to kill myself little by little and yet some how still be here staring at this horrible fucking planet.  Smelling the vile humanity on all the people around me, engaging in meaningless trivial little relationships that I already know will terminate in them uttering the words "he's an asshole".  I am constantly assailed by this wretched condition, constantly have people flaunt their happiness at me, revel in their emotions, cherish their friendships, they just slam it down my throat until I get physically sick.  There it is; I am sick.

Sartre ..."Nausea"... read it. 

Wait, don't bother, you wouldn't understand it.  You wouldn't get it.

I know they talk about me behind my back, I know that they speak ill of me, I know what they say, I know who they say it to, I know everything they think I don't.  I pretend not to notice, I pretend to not care, pretend to be unaffected, pretending and pretending.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps into this petty pace.

"But I'm not the one that seeks your attention I'm not the one to share the disguise and I'm not the one that wreaks of rejection I'm not the one to tear the same way twice.  You push from the inside out, smothered."

I know what they think, their thoughts roll off their bodies like disgusting beads of sweat.  The supposed counterculture, the "open-minded", the caring and compassionate.  Blag; their thoughts are more disgusting then even my worst.  They wrap themselves into a pretense of humanity and end up looking like fucking lepers to me, I don't want them near me, don't want them to touch me lest they spread their foul breed of humanity onto me.

Wake me up, insult me, then tell me I am childish for overre-fucking-acting!  I never overreact, never.  I react just like I always do, if you knew a fucking thing about me you could start to gauge how I might respond to certain things.  You might know that I attack when I am backed into a corner, a perceived slight against me is an attack, an attack warrants a counterattack.

Trying, trying, trying.  Where does it get me?  Out in the mother fucking rain, by my fucking self.  Perpetually alone, constantly alone, always alone, why, oh why do I even try to come out of my secluded shell? Why do I have to keep trying to be a social creature when I am most obviously not.  I am a creature of habit, a creature of solitude.  I have my small handful of friends that is ever decreasing and I am suddenly ok with that.

Fuck it, I have to get more beer and find out when the liquor store opens, I am gonna try to drink myself into a coma.

Easter has come and gone, the most important holiday in the year to me, starting with Good Friday ending with Easter Sunday. Most important days of the year to me, I like to hang out and be meditative. Circumstances again transpired against me.

I inadvertently made plans on Good Friday, which again scrapped my vow of silence. I decide to do it on Saturday to at least give Jesus a day of reverence (fucking guy was beat to shit and nailed to a fucking cross, least I can do is not talk for twenty-four hours.), but I cracked as soon as Date-Night called me. I wanted to see her instead of doing religious stuff, so that makes three years running that a girl has made me give up a vow of silence.

Despite how shitty I felt about giving up the quiet solitude to go hang out at a bar with her, I still did it, I didn't even let on that I broke a commitment to myself, just tried to act normal. All night though I was consumed by the thought that I am worthless and cannot do anything right, not even stop talking.

Regardless.

At the bar I enjoyed myself, as much as I can at shitty local bars. Date-Night was with two friends and Macs was there, so I end up with Macs. I convince him to play darts with me, I keep looking over at Date-Night and she is actually watching me, watching me throw darts like a jack ass. It was fucking adorable though, I love it when chicks watch me doing stupid things, especially when they look at me with this certain look that kind of just says "why don't you stop doing that and come over here." Melts me, fucking melts me. So I ham it up, laugh with my whole body, act like I don't notice her staring at me, smile a ridiculous amount, laugh at bad jokes, et cetra. It was nice to have her just stare at me, made me think that she cared about me.

Piff.

We all end up back a t my place, Date-Night invited these three douche bags, one of which was obviously hitting on her all night, so I am pissed. I am a very jealous person, and he was kinda good looking, in that "I do my hair" way. Fuck him though, I bet I could make him cry like a little bitch.

I get stoned with Macs, more out of spite then anything else. "If she wants to hang-out with them, I am at least gonna get fucked up" I think to myself. There's too much light though, too much light, it starts to really bother me, too much movement, too many people, too much...just too much. I sneak out back and smoke a cigarette in the dark. Date-Night comes out back and we have a little talk, a nice talk, a real nice talk A really really nice talk.

I end up just going to sleep later on by happenstance, I was pissing she left, she came back, I didn't notice, I kept pissing, she left, I slept.

"Oh, woe is me!"  I say to no one.
No one is looking at me.  No one is talking to me.  No one is paying any attention to me.  They are all thinking I am too drunk to be coherent.  I allow them their indulgence.
In my favorite chair, pointed at my favorite corner.  I am secluded off.  I play up my drunkenness, start talking to a nearby plant about the socio-economic decline of post war Russia.  Loudly.  I take an exaggerated drag off my vodka.  Smacking my lips.  "Spider-plant?  Have I ever told you I love you?"  I wait for the plants reply.  "Well I do, spider-plant.  I love you so much, you have always been there for me!"  Hurling the last part over my shoulder at the party.
"Oh boy!"  She says sliding around the back of the chair and into my lap.  Throwing her arms wide around my neck.  "At it again I see."  She kisses my lips.
"Ah, my darling!  How I have missed you so!"  Getting up I place her on the floor and begin to spin her around.  I break into a little tango with her for a second.
"Oh, it's like that tonight, is it?"  She says looking at me from arms length.
"Oh, isn't it always me lady, isn't always."
She laughs.  "I love it when you are happy, how much have you had to drink?
I sit back down, grimace.  "Bah, one or two."  I chug from my bottle.
"You are insane, has anyone told you that?"  She lays across my lap.
"Once or twice, but never on Sundays, I don't work on Sundays...the Sabbath and all that jazz."
"Any big plans tonight, a hot date?"
"Ah, only you my dearest, only you.  I was hoping I could seduce you."
"Seduce me?"  She says with mock astonishment.
"...Or get you drunk enough to lower your standards."
She laughs again.  "Ever the romantic, you are."
"Romance is for virgins and lovestruck poets.  I, my dear, am painfully neither."  I jump up, knocking her to the ground.  Helping her up and turning to the party "Romance, babe, you want romance?"  I whisper.  "I love this girl, this girl right here!  I love her with my entire body and being!  She is perfect in every possible way!  I love her madly!  What's your name again sweetie?!"  I scream at the people, all looking at me aghast.
Laughing again, "Perhaps we should get out of here."
"Ah see, my powers of seduction are too much for you."  She grabs my sleeve and begins to drag me through the party.  "My vodka!?"  I am suddenly terrified.
"Leave it.  I'll get you more."  She's saying as she pushes me through the door.
"Goodnight all!"  I scream through the rapidly shutting door.  "Good people that lot of degenerates and drug-addicts."
"Hey!  Don't make fun, you are one of them, if not the worst."
"Well played lass."
We walk down the street.  I babble.  She listens.  The spring night is slightly cool, stripping off my jacket I hand it to her while discussing the benefits of ball sucking.  She wraps her small frame into my jacket.  I am overcome by her beauty and kiss her.  We stand there for several long seconds gazing into one another's eyes.  "I mean, a good ball licking just makes the orgasm that much better.  When a guy goes down on you you want him to pay attention to your whole vagina, right?  Of course.  Well I feel the same way about..."  I hear her sigh over my conversation piece, hopping to catch up with my strides.
We arrive at her door after some time and a little rough housing.  I wait for her to invite me in.  "Have I ever been here before?"
"Yes, yes you have."
"Hrmph, memory isn't what it used to be."
"That'll happen with the amount you drink, beer?"
I chuckle this time.  "No, never, never touch the stuff.  Alcohol is a tool of the Devil."
She comes out of the kitchen with two Buds already open, she hands me one.  "You can drop the act any time you want."
"Act?!"  Placing my hand on my chest and staring at her  in terror.  "Me, no, never.  This is just me being me."
"You talk too much."
"I do everything too much; I drink too much, I smoke too much, I talk too much, I think too much.  I think "too much" is my life's motto."
"Shush."  She kisses me.  I spin her and fall back on to her couch.  She's on top of me.  "That a roll of quarters or are you just happy to see me?"
"Did you really just use that line?  Have some self-respect, young lady!"  We kiss again.
"I am glad I went to the party."
"Why is that?  Get some young studs number?"
"Shut up."  She grinds her hips into me a little.  "If you spend the night will you stay until morning?"
"Well that depends on one's definition of morning."
"Like until I have to goto work."
"What time is work?"
"I have to be in at 2."
"P.M.?"
"Uh huh."
"No no no, much too late."
"I hate when you leave before I wake-up... makes me feel cheap ...and, you know, a little used."
"Oh darling, I could never use you."
"Stop talking like that mister!"
"Hehe, you sound like my mother."
"I feel like you need another one most of the time..."
"I need a stronger drink, is what I need."
"Seriously, will you stay the whole night please."  Her eyes were glistening as though she were about to cry.
"How could I say no to that face."
"So you will stay!?"  The tears replaced by joy.
"Yes."
"Promise?!"
"Yea, I fucking promise."  I am getting pissed off.  "Why the sudden urge for me to stay?"
"Well, honestly, I know you fool around with other girls.  I don't really like it but you are open and honest about it and when you are with me you are only with me, and I like that.  It's just the mornings that are the hardest thing to deal with when it comes to you."
"Whaddaya mean?"
"Well you always disappear at like 4 a.m., and then you are gone for a few days,or weeks, and then you pop back up again as if no time has passed."  I stare at her trying to get more of the story.  "...It makes me feel like a ...booty-call.  Like you don't enjoy being with me and all you can do is try to get out of here as soon as possible.  Honestly, how long do you wait around after I fall asleep?"
"...Well it depends, a couple times I'll try to sleep for like an hour and then leave cause it ain't happening, other times I wait till I hear you start breathing deeply, smoke a cig and bounce, and then other times I will pass out for a few hours, get up and leave.  It's not like I just stare at the clock or anything."
She places her head on my chest.  "I always sleep the best when you are next to me."
"This sounds like the start of a boyfriend/girlfriend talk."
"I am not going to force you to do anything, no ultimatums from me.  I do want this to be a ...little more formal, but I can wait a little longer for you to realize how amazing I am."  She giggles at her own joke.
"I already know how amazing you are."  I fold my arm around her back and start rubbing her head.  "It's actually why I think you are a little retarded, I mean, really, me?  Are you slumming it or do you actually believe I am good enough for you, either way, little touched in the ole noggin', you ask me."
"You are an ass."  She says burying herself deeper into my body's warmth.
"...So...wanna fuck around?"
"Wow, the three words that every girl waits to hear, 'Wanna fuck around'?  Don't you have any tact?"
"...So that's a 'no' then, right?"
"Ugh.  I want to...but I can't, I am on my period."
"...Your mouth isn't..."
"Did you just say that?!"  She looks straight at me.
I start laughing, hard.  "Wanna go into your bed or want me to grab a blank for out here?"
"Let's go into my bedroom." 
We strip down into some sort of bed clothes.  I end up just in my jeans.  We lay down and she starts to make-out with me, she starts heading down to my crotch.  I pull her up.  "No, it's OK.  I enjoy your company enough that we don't have to fool around, we can just goto sleep, and I will be here when you wake up."
She looks shocked.  She kisses me on the cheek and rest her head on my chest.  "I can hear your heart."
I talk for a few minutes about life and such until I feel her drift off.  I stare at the ceiling for the next 9 hours while  she sleeps.  I smoke and stare.  Stare and smoke.

Coffee, coffee, coffee.  It appears to me that coffee is one of the few things that I look forward to before going to sleep and rejoice in when I have procured a pot of this vile tasting shit.  9a.m. and I am already two pots deep...there will be a third.

I went away this week, I was an hour outside of town, staying in a motel, work related (I don't want to get into it.), and I don't think any one even noticed.  Spamboy did, but I think that is only because he was hanging out with Macs so, the way I figure it, that doesn't count for shit.  I was the only one in the group that wasn't really looking forward to coming back "home", I enjoy the motel lifestyle.  It's like living with your parents but they cannot yell at you no matter what you do.  It's amazing.

Bullet points:
Date-Night-Chick tells me I talk about myself too much and that I look at myself in everything reflective.
Stoned-Lawyer tells me that I use vague terms to identify people in my stories "it's always 'this girl I am talking to' or 'this guy I hang-out with', don't they have names?"
Honey-bunny tells his girlfriend in front of me that "I am an interesting person".
I say that I am the Devil and a cancer that destroys everything it touches.
Hilarity does ensue.

More on those bullet points later.

Now on the news at nine; "Josh's unnatural affinity towards Heroin addicts".
I was reading this book, "lullabies for little criminals" by Heather O'Neil, and in the story the chicks father is a heroin addict and it got me day-dreaming about addiction.  Heroin addicts have this milieu that I find so enthralling, I tried to come up with a better word for it but that is exactly what they make me feel like, enthralled.  There is just something about being so driven and purposeful, "What did you do today?" "Got High." "Is that it?" "...Um...yup." "Did you eat?" "Nah, got high instead." "Did you find a job?" "Nah, sold some stuff, got high, you know." "Did you bathe today?" "Nah, got high."

Hardcore drug-addiction is a form of asceticism, and in case you didn't know, Josh find asceticism very sexy.  Getting into a real drug problem is the closes thing a Westerner can do to actually being a Buddhist monk.  It's that kind of detached, emotionless, drive towards living that I want to live.  I mean, you know, before all the stealing and ripping people off shit.  Before they turn evil heroin addicts are worthy of some form of respect, at least the respect you show to any man that is completely devoted to something you don't understand, i.e. priest, monks, soldiers, martial arts masters, sword-fucking-makers, et cetra.

Remember that next time you see an addict begging for money; they are seeking enlightenment and they know exactly how to procure their own brand of nirvana.  No kneeling, bending, praying, chastity, rules, regulations, mortification, abstinence required.  ...When I put it like that it actually reminds me of "Siddhartha" (which for all you kiddies playing along at home is my number one, top five, most awesome, favorite of favorites of favorite books.  If you haven't read it please stop reading this entry right this instant, go out, get some razor wire, swallow said wire, pull it out of your ass, and floss yourself to death...please.)  I mean, in essence what else was Siddhartha doing with the Ferryman but casting aside all doctrines and expectations and allowing himself to experience one pure feeling?  Bam, heroin.

Something occurred to me about being in my twenties; it's like being a baby all over again but this time instead of mommy and daddy running around in back of you trying to instill in you their views and ideals, you are a baby raising yourself.  Now is the first time in my life that I feel as though I am (in-)actively crafting my future.  I really feel this sense that what I do today will actually affect my tomorrow.  It is a pleasing sensation, "much like an orgasm", a little exciting, a little thrilling, and a little messy.  I also feel like I am ready to start living this next leg of the adventure.  I feel like a pie piece in "Trivial Pursuit", I got all the fucking colors and now I have got up the inlet and the destination is theoretically one die roll away, I just have to get that last fucking question right and then I can beat my fucking dad!

That wasn't some insight into my mental workings, that last line there.  I don't want to be better then my dad.  That's a fool's errand.  My dad is amazing at the things my dad is amazing at; he is smart and witty, he sees through people's bullshit, and knows more about the world then I ever will, he is also a cock-sucker, asshole, and alienates most people (we are similar but that's just cause I still love the fucking guy and he was, arguably, 50% of the people that made my personality.), most importantly though is my dad is a Man, my father defines himself, not his job or his bank account, he is who he is and if you don't like it you can fuck off.  That is his best quality in my mind, or at least the quality that is most worthy of esteem.  I don't want to be better then him though, I mean I am better then him, at the stuff I am better then him at.  ...Wow, the logic train left me at the station with that sentence.  Fuck it, it'll suffice.

Anyways; I feel a sense of Becoming again.  It is a wonderful feeling, a feeling I have been chasing for...what feels like ever.  It will be fleeting so I treat it with a mixture of awe and "fuck it", to try to hold onto it will be to help it leave, to just keep plodding along will lead to it staying around a little longer.

Bukowski's writing makes me long for that kind of lifestyle.  The heroin addicted lifestyle, that is.  Well not Bukowski, he was a drunk, but his writings get me longing for the life of asceticism just like heroin addicts...sentence...structure...breaking...down...stream...of....consciousness...

Fuck it.

Reading Buwkowski always makes me want to go to a liquor store and get a bottle, a big bottle, of cheap, real cheap, liquor and drink.  Drink and write.  His lack of prose is so poetic.  His rapid chapters and sentences makes me all weak kneed.  I, apparently, like Bukowski.

I wanted to write about a new form of self destruction that I am about to embark upon, but truthfully I do not want to write about it.  I only had one sentence that I was going to form a thought around, so instead of trying too hard to make a complete thought out of it I will just say the line and leave it at that: Can I just keep on trying to drink my weight in liquor? No.  I have found a new form of self-destruction that is more palatable...

With a little more speed:
Date-Night-Chick's comments pissed me off just enough for me to feel the need to publicly validate my vanity, her words rebounded around in my mind for days after words.  I tell stories about myself when people aren't talking about anything I deem worthy.  If the conversation isn't stimulating I default to "this one time I was..." stories.  My stories are fluff.  Meaningless.  I do it to pass the time and fill the void.  They are normally cute little anecdotes that everyone can laugh at.  Nothing more, nothing less.  I look at myself so much because I love catching myself in different positions.  I love watching my body and face move through life.  How I view myself in my mind and how I actually look are always different.  Some times I am stunned at how good looking I am, but mainly I am looking at myself because I think I look like shit.  I catch myself in windows making horrid faces that I promise myself to never make again.  I see in the car's bumper my desperate need for a shave and a hair-cut.  The one-way windows of office inform me that I should be sleeping more.  So on and so forth.

I don't use people's names in my stories for the simple fact that if I used names people would realize I only hang out with a very few people.  It actually started way back when because I couldn't remember a girl's name that I had fucked and wanted to tell the room about it.  After a few more of those situations arising I decided I should just stop using names.  It has carried over to today because I only really do things with maybe three people.  I get tired of the same names, you probably would too.  It also has a little, a very little, to with the fact that I think I am a pretty forgettable character in the grand scheme of life, I never expect people to remember my name, let alone my friend's.  Very little.

Honeybunny tells his girlfriend that I am interesting right before him and I are forced to share a bed.  That just felt good.  It stoked my ego, which, you know, I am all about.  I do believe that Hunnybunny and I are quickly becoming friends.  I am trying to not latch on to him too much, or ask for too much, but I still feel I am.  Still feel like the little kid trying to catch up to the older "cool" kids. 

Which leads me directly into my last thought.  I am a virus.  A disease.  I am cancer.  I am Marla.  I suck all the life and health out of everything that is dumb enough to get into my striking range.  I am only about self-preservation, the status quo, and continuation of my happiness.  This is a reoccurring theme in my head, but it really sank in while I was sitting in the shower yesterday.  I really am only concerned about making myself happy and satiating my desires.  I could validate this thought, wrap it up in a nice philosophical bow, pretend that I have logic and evidence to support my case, but I won't.  I am scum.  I am venom.  I am poison. 

All I will say is that everyone I know will fuck me over in the end.  I stand by that.  I believe it.  I live it.  Perhaps this idea does sset me up to manipulate situations and try to get as much out of a person as I can before they discard me but you know what?  Everyone I have ever known has, in fact, fucked me over, at least in the end.  Everyone is self-serving, or at least I see it that way. 

But I am trying to validate my most abhorrent of personality quirks. With every word I still try to cast a negative light on it.  I still try to paint the picture that I am actually bothered by it.  Do not believe me.  I am trying to manipulate even this situation.  Trying to get you, the reader that I don't even know, to believe that I am a descent, caring, human-being.  I am not.  Quite simply.

"Don't bother, pretending I am seem fine, I like that, I'm a mess, can't stand, much longer in my head, I think it's time for bullets."

Bam!  I am sixteen all over again; heavy metal blaring, muddy coffee, and cigarettes.  This is how my formidable years were spent, the only differences between then and now (besides the obvious modifications to my body) is the Bukowski sitting next to me.  I fear some days I have just forgotten to grow-up like everyone else around me.  I feel like I am still that kid, so lonely, so tired, so bored, so discontent.

Just a little observation that I doubt has any real merit.  It's not like I am going to suddenly grow-up just because a couple people have told me I need to.  Fuck them.  Fuck their observations.  I don't take advice from people that I don't think are better then me.  That's was always my problem with shrinks; who the fuck are they to tell me that something is wrong with me?  Are you the paradigm of normalcy?  Are you of some sort of higher order then me?  Have you unlocked some mystery that I have yet to even begin grappling with?  No?  You are a fucking shmuck, just like me?  Really, would have never guessed from your fucking sweaters.

Ugh, sorry lapsed into some old wounds there for a second.  I hated my shrinks.  They used to always try to get me to either blame my parents or tell them that my parents beat/molested me.  They would always ask me questions like "do you know what inappropriate touching is?" or "does your dad ever hit you? does he ever hit you too much?"  How does a twelve year old respond to that question?  Of course I thought he hit me too much, I didn't want to get hit at all, so any amount of hitting was too much, now if they had asked me if I feel like my dad was kicking the shit out of me, that's easy, of course not.  Him and I got into our rows from time to time (one of the reason I cropped my hair short was because he drug me through the house by my hair once, funny now, not then), but by and large my father never hit me, unless I was really, really,,really asking for it.

I am rambling, avoiding the topic that I have to talk about.  I have needed to update this journal for about a week now.  It's just all this shit that swirls around inside my head needed to settle a little before I could objectively put it into perspective.  I was still too hurt to talk about it, perhaps I still am, would explain the avoidance.

A week ago we (Macs, Date-Night-Chick, and Spamboy) celebrated my birthday.  A couple jager-bombs, a couple beers, a few bars, and me pretty god damn close to black-out drunk.  I walk into my room at the end of the night, and there is my cat's liter, sitting in my room, placed there by Rob.  Why?  It was dirty (filthy in fact) and it was stinking up the apartment.  I couldn't afford to buy more liter, so I had to deal with it.  I fly off the handle about this, I fly off the handle.  I lost my temper.  I admit it.  I have a bad temper and have to constantly check myself to keep it at bay.  I didn't this night, at 3 in the morning.  I rage through the house to his door and slam on it, I throw it open and let it out, let all this shit that I have been holding in for 2 months, maybe 6 months, maybe for years.

I let loose a barrage of insults and curse words.  The abridged version of what I said is "you are worthless, you do nothing around the house and then have the audacity to make ridiculous demands.  I hope you are happy that you are pissing away ten years of friendship."  Add a "fuck", or a "fucking, after ever second word, add a "fagot" after ever fifth word, a "mother fucker" every seventh word, and a "cock sucker" after every ninth word, and you have roughly what I said to him that night.  To his credit, he took it like a champ, handled it the only way possible, he was just lying their not even responding.

Cut to the next day and then he has words with me, shoves me around a bit, makes me leave the house for the night.  He tells me that he can't be friends with me until I "get my shit together".  I am holding back laughter throughout most of this, provoking him to even greater heights of anger and frustration, daring him to lash out at me, pushing his buttons in an attempt to really drag out all of his anger for me, I succeed with mixed results.

I end up honoring his wishes and leaving the apartment for the night.  It's seven o'clock at night and I don't know where to go.  I run through the phone-tree of people I know in Syracuse; Karin: "nope she is pissed at me for (apparently) hitting on her (which I apparently blacked-out I was so drunk the last time I saw her, so I don't even know if I had said something or if I was grabby, I doubt grabby, I normally am not that kind of guy, regardless, she is livid with me.)."  Macs: "nope, he is in the apartment with me that I can't go back too."  Syrajuice Rob: "Nope, haven't talked to him in over two months."  Foxy-Foxy: "Nope, don't know her well enough."  Sadie: "Hasn't returned my phone calls in months."  Tingle: "Hahaha."  Ripple Jr. or Sr.: "Nope, don't know them well enough either."  Spamboy: "he said he'd call me when he got home, he hasn't called and I am not going to fuck his night up."

It suddenly occurs to me that everyone around me is pissed off at me for some reason or another, valid or not.  I am still walking, just going straight, with nowhere to really go.  I am just meandering, following streets and my shadow.  An hour later I am still walking, I see a sign read the temperature, 27 degrees.  I keep moving as the cold starts to creep into my, inadequately clothed, bones; the humor of the whole situations starts to recede and an aching feeling starts to develop.

"Maybe I am the X-Factor."  I think to myself.  I mean Rob was doing fine, he had a job, was in school, he was progressing in life.  I move up here and bam, he is failing classes, losing jobs, spiraling into alcohol and smoking pot.  Macs might get fired because he was out with me until 6 a.m. and went into work still drunk.  Karin is pissed at Macs for fucking around with work, not to mention that I hit on her, her friend, and tried to fight one of her other friends all within a stretch of maybe two hours (it was a good night).

I start to look back on my relationships.  I start to think that I have drug people down, I have used them until they no longer can stand to be around me, I have sucked the life out of everything around me.  I start to actually believe I am the villain in their stories, I am suddenly the antagonist to these people. 

I feel dirty, I feel lost, I feel myself sinking.

And yet....I don't.

I feel nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I know I should be angry, I think I should be sad, I think I should be worried about where I am going to sleep, I should feel something about Rob's friendship ending, and a hundred other emotions I should be feeling.  ...But...I feel nothing.  nI am just blank. 

I know for a fact that Karin and Rob have been talking shit about me behind my back for months, literally, months.  I know this.  Rob has been just complaining that I don't see things from his perspective (and I have been bitching about him not doing it for me too), he complains about me not cleaning, or being loud and cantankerous, or getting obnoxiously drunk at inappropriate times, how I don't listen, or how I am only concerned about myself, and other things along this vein.  Complaints that are not only valid, but a necessary revelation for anybody that wishes to have a prolonged relationship with me.  So it didn't really bother me outside of the fact he knows I hate hate hate when people talk about me when I am not around.  I mean his grievances were legit and I won't begrudge him them, there were a couple that I didn't like though, such as he blamed me for failing two courses, blamed me for not looking for a job, blamed me for the general poverty that we have descended into (which is partly true), and he just generally blamed me for many shortcomings and failures.  I don't know if he actually voiced these complaints to anyone, but I could see them in his eyes, just floating there like unspoken accusations.

Karin on the other hand has made me the most contemptuous of scoundrels.  I was the root cause for most of the things that were going wrong in her relationship with Macs, I was the reason Macs is doing nothing with his life, I am the one that has Macs smoking cigarettes and zombing in front of the TV, I am the reason he plays horrible video games and goes out drinking.  I am the reason she moved out of the apartment.  On and on they flow out of her, I know this, I know some choice words she has used to define me, "asshole" (old hat, she wasn't very original in that, as if I really care anymore when another cunt calls me a fucking asshole, yea it stings, but better people have called me an asshole for better reasons so more-or-less I am desensitized to it), she recently called me a "monster", which I kind of like, it has the feeling of new socks, or a t-shirt fresh out of the dryer, something you are used to but still gives you tingles because it feels so different.

I have been painted the villain out here, maybe everywhere.  I have been looked at as the root cause for all of these problems that I am loosely associated with, I have been accused and blamed for so long, no one believes that I see it from anyone else's perspective, they all call me egocentric, self absorbed, concerned with only myself, I have gotten "narcissist ", shit even my mother calls me an egotist.  I am starting to believe that's what all these problems breakdown to.  That I am just too concerned with my own happiness to be bothered by other people's pain. 

I am not going to even bother arguing my case on that front.  I know who I care about, I know where my priorities to my friends lay, I know who I am when I close my eyes and try to sleep, and if you believe that I am a self-absorbed asshole, that's great, I can respect that, now kindly remove yourself from my life and you will never have to deal with me or my antics ever again. 

I know I have these attributes that people are linking to me.  I am by no means proud of my shortcomings, I am not happy that people regard me as some kind of cold, methodic, user, but these characteristics are like a visible birth mark to me; they are part of who I am, and yes, I do try to cover them up, I have tried to change them, and some times I fucking hate them, but until I figure out how to get rid of them I am stuck with them, always waiting for someone that I care about to notice them and make me feel bad for them. 

Conversely though I could give a fuckless if people on the outskirts of my circle of friends believe that I am a bad person, a fuckless.  Fuck 'em, suck my mother fucking dick.  It does, or it did, or maybe it still does (regardless), bother me that a friend like Rob thinks the same thing.  I know I don't show concern much, if ever, I definitely do not wear my heart on my sleeve, I am guarded about what I display in regards to emotions, and I know I say outlandish and ridiculously cruel things, but people like Rob get to hear how I actually feel about certain things.  Certain things.

Rob told me that I am going to be alone forever, he also called me a lunatic, and that he was afraid to live with me (right after he had actually kind of attacked me, people are funny sometimes), at first I thought he might be right, that maybe I am going to be alone forever.  I meditated on this while walking around that night.  Then two thoughts occur to me almost at the same time; he knows that is my biggest fear, he knows for a fact that I sometimes get panic attacks at the thought of being alone for the rest of my life so he was trying to push my buttons, and that I used to be actively training myself to overcome that fear and to actually enjoy being alone.  That was my goal in life, was to be ready to die and be alone for the rest of eternity.  That is what I have been lacking all this time, I have still been making relationships that I treat as though they will last until the end of time, when all relationships are are transient moments where two people connect and then float apart.  To hold on past that point is to invite suffering.  It would be better to slam my head into a wall then to try to make people perceive me differently, at least slamming my head into a wall will produce some kind of effect.

What have I been doing since this samadhi?  Pulling inward.  I am now trying to respond only when engaged, I will call you back, or I will answer my phone, I will not dial.  Again "If I must be lonely, I think I'd rather be alone."  If everybody around me thinks that I am a horrible person and deserve some kind of karmatic retribution, then I will not begrudge them that, but I will not invite them into my life any more.  Nor will I allow them to speak badly about me again.  I have bit my tongue for moths out here, I have heard these insults slung at me and have tried to take them in stride to the point that I don't even let the person know that I have insight into their mind, this will no longer happen.  "If you push me don't think that I won't push harder."

I finally feel like I redeveloping a personality that I can be proud of.  I feel like a weight has been lifted off me and now I have an aim and a goal.  Something to work towards, which I guess my mind needs.

It was poetic too; I have all this shit weighing me down, just tugging at my mind's strings, and the book I bring with me to walk around with is Nick Hornby's "High Fidelity" (i.e. one of y favorite movies), and as I am reading I just completely identify with the main character even more, that book is literally how I think, especially in regards to relationships, with the opposite sex that is.  Definitely one of my top five books.

Another long, rambling, entry about how "shitty my life is", boo-fucking-woo.  "No one loves me, every on is angry at me waa-waa."