neoacidcreep

First off, there is THIS!  An article obviously written by a woman in which she basically tells men to lie to their partners and pander them whenever they start acting irrational.  Wonderfully proving my point that women should A) never, ever write anything B) that even other women know that they are fucking nuts C) that women should never, ever write anything PERIOD.

With that out of the way, onto the meat and potatoes.

Firstly I tried way too hard to get a date with this chick.  I sent her a bunch of text asking what she was doing and if she wanted to get together.  I think the final tally registered in around 6 or 8 text messages.  I haven't tried to talk to a girl that bad since I was 18 or so.  Why did I try so hard to make contact 9 months of no dating, 8 months of no sex makes me act out of character apparently.

Finally this chick responds to a message and invites me out for a drink.  Right off the bat I am not liking  the prospect, same day dates are always fucked, they are like Saturdays, no good ever happens on them.  The idea of free beer though gets me over this first hurdle.

It's around 6 o'clock when I decide to leave, I throw on a cleaner shirt and some jeans, I don't do my hair, and I refuse to shave.  I decide to put as little effort into how I look as possible, aiming for that bad boy image I project so well.  Also, for some reason unknown to me, I wanted to look like shit, I kind of wanted to do things that turned chicks off.  Who knows why I do what I do some times.

I take the hour long walk downtown.  I am already tired and discontent, I meet up with the chick but I am too busy fiddling with my Zune trying to find Snot "My Balls" trying to amp myself and recapture some of that desire to be out on a date, so right off the bat, bad impression and she ends up floating away from me while I finish up my cigarette.

We get inside and I have to say it seems slightly promising, despite I am avoiding eye-contact at almost all cost.  Looking all over the bar, reading and rereading the same signs trying not to catch her eyes.  I don't like the bar right away, it's loud, full of people that spent too much time deciding what to wear, ordering stupid drinks and generally being pretentious, I don't fit in.

To her credit, she was being cute, trying to make small talk about innocuous topics, all very noncommittal.  For some reason I find that kind of behavior cute.  We get our drinks, she pays (which is hot), we shuffle into a booth.  Even tucked away the bad music still invades my consciousness and I can barely concentrate on what to talk about.  I make some comment about the music through my twitching and fidgeting and she takes the cue and moves us to the back of the bar at this ridiculously large booth.

I am forced to sit on the outside cause she already slid into the inside.  My eye keeps catching these girls walk by dressed in pants that look painted on and dresses that show off too much skin and high heels, lots of heels, its too much for me to not take notice.  I try to fight off the urge to gawk at every girl in the bar, I succeed to some extent but she doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't care.

Our conversation, of course, goes into every topic that I am strong-willed about and avoid like the fucking plague on first dates, shit I avoid these topics for the first three months of any relationship, some choice examples:
"So what do you think about abortion?"
"Oh, you are a Republican..."
"I don't care about religion and all that nonsense."
I forget what we were talking about but I get into something vaguely philosophical and you can literally see this girl just glaze over, it was so bad I actually trailed off and just said "but you obviously don't care about that...".  Philosophy.  She said she just didn't care about it much.  ...Philosophy...you know, my life's pursuit.

We end up back at the first booth, things seem to be getting a little better.  The third or fourth beer I was kicking back though probably had more to do with it then anything happening in reality.  I start eye-balling the clock, waiting for what feels like the appropriate time to make my exit.  Just as I am seriously thinking about leaving she invites these two other chicks to sit down, I am stuck on the inside next to this complete stranger.  It always bodes well when your date invites other people to join you...

 We all trade obligatory introductions, one of the chicks is sloppy drunk, slurring her words, getting loud, saying foul abusive things about everyone around her, so, you know, I like her a lot.  She was fun in a wind her up and watch her go, I kept leaning over and calling her a bitch which amused her and I to no end.

I take to these two girls, they are fun and exciting.  I was enjoying their company, and I always work better in groups as opposed to one-on-one.  These two chicks are eating me up to, they are laughing hard at my jokes, they are listening to what I say, the one that wasn't sloppy drunk kept complimenting me which is always awesome.  The girl I am out on the date with is obviously not amused by me talking to these two girls, with good reason to, the whole night I am half dead, barely talking, zoning out, looking around, avoiding eye-contact, twitching-twitching (when the fuck do I twitch?), and just generally acting like I don't want to be there and then suddenly I come to life.  I am asking these two questions and yelling and talking shit.

The girl I was out with is obviously not amused and gets up and starts talking to her friend.  I don't notice for a few moments, I thought she went to go smoke a cigarette or something.  I notice she is seated and having a conversation.  "Fuck, I just want to fuck this up."  I say to myself when it becomes apparent that it might appear like I am flirting with these two chicks and now my date is pissed off at me.

I explain to the two that her and I are "kind of on a date and I am fucking it up well enough without you two helping".  They understand and let me up to go talk to my date.  I ask her why she left we with these two crazy bitches, after a little back and forth she comes back to the table.  Awkward silence before the sloppy drunk bitch says "So are you two, like, on a date or something?", I let my date respond with a very subdued "kinda".  The two chicks apologize for interrupting and excuse themselves.

The night seems to get a little better after that.  She starts babbling to me and I am maintaining eye-contact like a fucking champ.  I have my hand over my mouth to hide my smile as I fear she might take it as an insult.  We have nothing in common, it is so obvious.  She is just not interested in me whatsoever, so what does Josh do?  Suddenly I want to kiss her, badly.  Her tepid response to me is just like an aphrodisiac, I suddenly wanted to win her over to my team. 

After a couple of failed attempts to just kiss her, I finally declare that I have been trying to kiss her for the past half an hour and if she would just move her shit off the bench I would go over to her and kiss her.  She obliges halfheartedly.  I kiss her, her lips are thin and tight, she doesn't seem to be too interested in returning a kiss, but I do it anyways.  At the time I thought she was into it, but in retrospect, probably not so much. 

I kiss her a few more times before she tells me she wants to go home.  For some reason I got it in my head to invite her back to my place, probably lucky beer number eight was the one with the idea.  I keep trying to ask her in a nonchalant way but get detracted before I ask.  Then, invariably, I forget to ask her, then remember but don't want to like shout it at her so I decide to wait, then forget, so on and so forth.

Her cab pulls up and I start off in the direction of home.  Staying on par with the night it doesn't even occur to me to try to kiss her goodnight until she has already said something to the effects of "oh, ok, I guess you are leaving" and got into a cab.  I guess it is for the best that the date ended with the same flippancy that we both brought to it.

Cut to the next night, Saturday.  I try to get her to hang out with me, it's a no go.  I ask her out again for a date on Sunday, nothing.  I have never asked a chick out so many times and got turned down so many times.  Horribly depressing.  I am talking to her on instant messenger while I update this, cause for some reason I still want to ask her out again.  I like having to chase a chick apparently.

That, in all of it's ridiculous detail, is my return to the dating scene, my return and my subsequent exit.  I am good again for a minute, I am not going to try to win someone over to my side, I don't want any of the head games, the waiting a few days or acting uninterested.  I'd rather be alone then keep putting myself on emotional limbs like that, especially for a chick I know almost nothing about.  That was never how I acted and I don't get why I am acting like it now.

There is actually a follow-up to this story, my first amazing Joshventure in Syracuse happened right after our date, but I don't want to get into that right now, I will definitely post about it though cause, fuck, my adventures even amuse me.

Ok, so more shit to add to my ever growing list of "little things chicks do".

During the first few kisses, I love just pulling back a few inches and watching her lips through slitted eyes.  I love when chicks do this neck spasm/twitchy thing, where you lean back just an inch or two and suddenly there is a giant war being fought in their head trying to decide to move in or not and then they do this thing where they kind of quiver, they twitch forward, just a few millimeters, then twitch back.  I love it, love it, love it.

Also when chicks just take control of the situation and kiss me.  Especially with a lot of force and tongue.  I always get caught off gaurd and don't know what to do with my hands, then her hands are in my hair and it seems trite to do the same thing to her, and putting my hands on a girls hips without knowing them all that well makes me uncomfortable, seems like way too personal of a touch. 

In so many aspects of my life  I am forced to be in control, forced to assume a leadership role, I am always the one that has to "step-up" and be in charge.  Generally I don't mind, I bemoan it, but I do like being the go-to-guy.  Except in one aspect, just one aspect in my entire life I don't want to be in control, that I don't want to have to be the one to instigate a reaction and that is with chicks.

The only time I like being on auto-pilot.  I like being drug around on shopping trips, I like listening to them prattle on about nothing and everything, I like watching them do things (innocuous things, like cooking or cleaning, or even just reading a book), and I love it when they just dominate me.  I love it when a chick takes charge of any kind of sexual activity, I love being fucked, I love them kissing me, I love them telling me what to do, I love them showing me what to do to them.  It is strange, but it is.

So, enough with the chick shit and onto some obligatory bitching.

I cleaned the entire house, sans dishes (which Macs ever so graciously did to stop be from bitching).  I moped, swept, scrubbed the fridge inside and out, cleaned the stove-top and front, cleaned the counters, bathroom, toilet, tub, dusted, cleaned off the tables, and ...I can't remember any thing else.  Oh, I cleaned-up the recycling that I think is bullshit and don't think is helping the world one iota, and I cleaned the bath mat and runner.  I did all this cause it needed to get done and no one else was volunteering to do it under the bullshit guise that "it isn't my mess".  I left the garbage can without a bag in it and the one in the bathroom minus a bag as well, I look around yesterday and sure e-fucking-nough my douche bag rommies couldn't even put a trash bag in them, obviously they could put garbage and filth into them, but god for-fucking-bid they take the thirty-two seconds that it requires to locate a trash bag and load it into a trash can.

What (wait on it)...the...fuck?!

Moving thusly along. 

My mom is such a strong-willed confident person, my dad as well.  They are both exactly who they are, no pretense, no facade, they are themselves.  They are well groomed, articulate, intelligent, worldly, knowledgeable people.  And yet their spawn, i.e. Me, is an unkempt daydreamer that doesn't know who he is moment to moment.  I noticed this when I caught a reflection of myself and my four-days worth of beard growth, my hair that is in desperate need of a cutting, and the general disarray of my clothing.

And by the way, when did graphic tees go out of style?  Is this just an age thing?  Am I suddenly too old to wear a shirt with the Green Lantern logo on it?  Why shouldn't I be aloud to wear what I like, I think my clothes give a quick lesson on who I am.  It's a good thing I thought.  Apparently not.  Suddenly it labels me a dork, not in the cool way either, in the bad loser kind of way.  That is unacceptable, so I am going to do it even harder now.

I got called fucking emo yesterday, emo again.  Again someone looked through my Zune and said "wow, you listen to a lot of emo, are you emo Josh?"  Argh, I do not listen to emo, at worst I listen to alternative music, admittedly a lot of my shit mucis is very depressing and slightly suicidal, but it is in no way emo.  My bands can actually play instruments and sound decent singing.  Argh.  I am not a fucking emo whinny little whelp that wants someone to save himself from himself.  I consider myself a medal head.

Bang bang.  I shot him dead.

I need drugs.

I hate to say it, I hate to put the woods together, but...there it is.  I need drugs.  Prescription, recreational, street, over-the-counter, medicinal, uppers, downers, laughers, screamers, speed, depressants, painkillers...whatever. 

I am drinking, again.  Three days, maybe four, in a row…might be five.  I am just sipping at the beer, taking slow deliberate drags off the bottle.  This sudden wave of depression stops me from even trying to get drunk.

 

I am in the shower trying to get an erection, trying desperately to run through past events and little fantasies of mine to get and keep a hard-on.  I disinterestedly orgasm, yet again.  For days I have been doing this, the worst is when I am too fucked up to fully maintain an erection, I can feel myself starting to go flaccid and then hurriedly finish myself off.  Desperately trying to block out reality for at least a second, la petit mort, praying, with each orgasm, that when I open my eyes the world will be gone.  That I will wake up from this bad dream and be able to live my real life.

 

Unfortunately, I keep seeing the same surroundings.  I could draw a map of the mildew in my shower from memory alone.  I could name all the veins in the back of my hand and underside of my arm.  That’s the other thing I have been doing; zoning in so completely to one object that I scrutinize it to the point of absurdity. 

 

I am reading Bukowski.  I think he has something to do with this whole “thing”.  He makes me feel like my life is pointless.  I haven’t had adventures like he has, I haven’t even seen one state let alone make declarative statements as to which coast I will never go back to.

 

I met this girl; well I have met two girls that have distorted my perceptions of myself and my universe.  Both have tried to encroach on the Utopia that I tell myself I live in.  they point out the dystopian aspects of my world, one did it consciously the other is doing it unconsciously.

 

Let’s move from psycho-conscious actions to pseudopsycho-conscious…good, glad you are coming along with me on that one.  So this chick, I like her, she is cute and fun and gives me drugs…obviously a character I keep in my stories.  But her and I have been butting heads, we do it fairly often.  In a moment of lucidity I informed her that I feel like I have known her forever, she agreed and said that it was because we have known others like us before, I would say it is because we are ancient spirits, almost primal in nature, difference in opinion, I guess.

 

Any ways.  I get into a fight the other night…I don’t even want to get into, suffice to say feelings and my skull were hurt.  She gets pissed at me for avoiding her and not telling her what happened, during her tirade she said something very poignant, “keep playing your games Josh, if you treat everything like a game no one will take you seriously!”  I didn’t even tell her that I think all of life is a game, she apparently came up with that on her own, she pegged me good.  That little barbed comment has stuck with me too, don’t get me wrong, life is still a game to me and everyone that surrounds me are puppets on strings to be toyed with until I cut them out of my life, but she gave me a little perspective.

 

And the other chick, ugh, the other chick…I am completely in love with her.  She has me wrapped around her little finger.  I love everything about her and know nothing about her, when I look into her eyes, fuck, when I look into her eyes or hear her call my name, I know that there is something right in this fucked up universe.  She is my bastion of normalcy, the last vestibule of budding love and youth, she is the citadel of a higher more profound inner-knowledge, she could be my wife, she could be the reason I finally slit my wrist, she could be the last nail in the coffin before I escape to the priesthood, she could be my lover, my mother, my sister, my daughter, my friend, my enemy…I just don’t know.  I can’t read her!  I hate it and I love it.

 

The most important people in my life I have been incapable of reading with any degree of clarity, the heart clouds logics eyes.  Normally just by making eye contact I can tell the course of a relationship, I can see into them and know where they and I will end up, with her though….the over-sized Gucci frames hide her eyes from my gaze, and when she removes them I just get lost in the clarity of her eyes.  What color are they, I was asked recently, “I don’t even know, I try to look through them but just…get lost.”  My mind reels when I look into her eyes, it plays out all sorts of outcomes, doesn’t settle down onto any one possible outcome.  It just seems like it is scrolling through the infinite possibilities.

 

How is she disrupting my reality?  For once my pride fails me.  For the first time in my life I have met a girl that I truly believe to be completely out of my league in every way, shape, and form.  It’s a strange feeling she evokes in me, the meeting of the old Josh and the new Joshua meet for a second, stand eye-to-eye, and actually agree on something.  The old version and the current version have perpetually hated each other, Josh has hated Joshua’s emotions and desire to express them, and Joshua has hated Josh’s inability to trust any one with his inner feelings.

 

I know I am one person, I get that those are both just aspects of the singular, but it is how my mind works, I need points of division and then I need to organize them into named categories.  Ergo, Josh and Joshua, the hardcore and the pussy.  The Loved and the Lover.  The one I want to be again and the one I am.  It works better this way, trust me.

 

I have always thought that I am a great guy and that any girl would be lucky to have me, even just once.  This is the first girl I have met that gets me tongue-tied and thinking that she is just too beyond me.  It’s killing me.  I just stand around at work waiting for her to come in so I can pretend I don’t know she is there.  She makes me smile.  I hate to smile, but love to smile for her.  I am a crippled pussy.

 

It is a weird dichotomy; I hate so much about her and what she can do to me.  I hate her clothes and her Gold American Express, I hate her over-sized Gucci sun-glasses, I hate that she leaves them on in doors, I hate that she only works three days a week, I hate that her friends biggest decision was the “Rachel” or the “Monica”.  Hate it, hate that I want to see her and to engage her in conversations, hate that she can either make or break my day.  Haste it, HATE it, hate hate hate hate hate hate hate it!

 

I know her name.  I do know quite a bit about her.  I don’t want to introduce her yet, I will introduce her after her chapter comes to a close.  Whatever, the new her. 

 

I keep thinking about suicide.  I am not going to do it, I don’t have the balls to clip myself, but it comforts me to think about it.  I just keep running this same thought around in my head, “what’s the point?  Work for 50 60 years to what avail?  Get a retirement fund that you cannot survive for long on and then one day die?”  That just seems like suicide in small increments, is that really what life is all about?

 

All this heartache, and love, and hate, and pain, and torment, and tears, and smiles, and laughter, and thought, and friendship, and jobs, and money, and children, and wives, and religion, and God, and faith, and working, and striving, and strife, and movement, and trying, and attempting, and denying, and debating, and creating, and crafting, and cooking, and orgasms, and sex, and meeting people, and watching people die, and losing, and lose, and regret, and the entire realm of human emotion and action.  What does it all mean in a hundred years?  What am I today, let alone in a thousand years?  Who will remember me?  Who will care that I even existed? 

 

Does this beer bottle know that I am sucking it’s insides down to try to gain a buzz?  Is the flea aware of the dog?  Does the fly smell the shit he eats?  What’s the point of working for so long, working at fostering relationships and trying to get by, to one day have everything I have acquired and accumulate just….slip away from me?

 

Why do I have to go through the next 50 years of all of that bullshit just to watch it disappear in the blink of an eye?  Can’t I just skip to the ending?  A bottle of wine and a shit ton of sleeping pills will do the same job that living will do, I can just cut out the foreplay and get right to the fucking.

 

I won’t due it.  Not because I am afraid of some ancient Father wagging an angry finger at me and chastising me to a Heaven or a Hell, shit, that’s just fifty-fifty, heads or tails, good or bad.  God being angry at me doesn’t even factor in in my decision to not off my self.  I am more concerned with the definite possibility that there is no God, that there is no afterlife, that there is NOTHING after this world.  Petrified that with two simple cuts I might wake up in a ethereal form, no corporeal being left.  Just my consciousness floating in the ethereal Primal darkness.  Just...Me….in the universe before the Universe was formed, a floating id in the Primal Universe. 

 

That scares the shit out of.  To be utterly alone, with no one but myself to talk to, to interact with, to converse with, to have to deal with?!  Oh God, I don’t like that idea one bit and would like to stave that off for as long as possible.  Still though, the idea of suicide it pleasing to my diseased mind.  It keeps me grounded and focused.  Helps me to see that there might be a worse alternative then this world.

 

Which I don’t even agree with.  I like this world, I find it a constant source of entertainment and amusement.  Everyday I find something new to look at and smile, something different to laugh about.  I enjoy just Being, I enjoy everything about it.  I am normally a fairly happy young man, which is the problem I do suppose; to be happy you need to be sad; it is the equalizing quality of the universe.  For every manic high I have, I most have a corresponding low.  For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, Newton’s third law, if I remember correctly.  Ergo, if I am to be one of the, generally, happiest people I know, I need to have correspondingly horrid depressions.  I am an extremist, I dubbed myself that many a year ago and it has only been made clearer through the escaping years.  I cannot just be indifferent or apathetic, I have to be manic, I have to be the happiest or the saddest.  For good or bad, it is who I am.

 

Try as I may I am still bound to this central idea of what Josh is, I am an extremist.  There is either Fucking or Fighting, Love or Hate.  I hate apathy.  I made statement years ago to Squillace, “I will always either love or hate something, actually you know what, I hate everything, we can build from there.”  That is still true.  Whether I have any actual opinion or not I will just default to hatred for it, it is easier that way.  I try to use “Hate” the way people use “love”, the oft mentioned, never defined word of our generation.

 

Fuck that.

 

Fuck this.

 

Fuck you.

What’s the purpose? What’s the point? What is this all about?

Killed my car. Lasted three weeks. Good times.

I need drugs. Now.

Her and I are becoming “unstable”, unstable at best, at least. It’s sad. I just don’t think she “gets” me. She just doesn’t know what I need. Ho-hum.

I see no reason to stay involved in this world. I want to destroy myself like never bore. I am so fed-up with life and this bullshit called life. It just seems like life is pointless. As though this world is a cruel joke I just don’t get.

I want a cave. A nice little cave. Hermit style.

Been writing. I’ve got three new chapters for my book “Dreams From a Forgotten Past”. One chapter culminates with me vomiting on a chick, being informed of my other status, and the last is a dissertation on my three-date fuck maxim. Good times. They still lack the…umph (?)…that the first chapter had, but they are good, kinda, not like shitty at least.

Back to my cave. Bookshelves on the right. A nice little occasional table off to the left, with a doily. A nice doily, not too big, eggshell colored. In the center a chair, probably of the wooden variety, maybe even a chair that which has the ability to rock –which is not to say that it can rock, but that it has the capacity with which to rock-, maybe just a simple straight back flat chair. In the back more bookshelves, and a urine pot, or a pot which will catch urine…the far left corner is the “bathroom”, to the left is the “kitchen”, or a fire-pit, (however one would like to think of it). Good times.

Having a new nightmare; my skin starts to crack open, my whole body starts to shred itself, it’s as if something inside me is growing and trying to rip out of my flesh. …Very painful…very.

Car is still dead.

She is all I can really think about. I am afraid we are coming to our logical end. I know I am demanding, I know, but she just doesn’t seem to care, or try…I guess. I mean she tries, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t know how to address the situation. I should get drizunk and address this problem…dri-fucking-zizunk. Woot.

I am actually gonna get drunk. Right now.

Later.

Later today I’ll update a chapter…if you were at all interested.