neoacidcreep

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."