Category: Insane

Wrighter VI

12/22/2012

I've always wondered what waits for me when I die. I assume I'll wake up dead some crap morning and realize there's a boulder or some lava or snakes in my rent controlled fire hazard. Then some searing pain and uncontrollable fear surging through my veins, only topped by the realization that there is none of the horrid visions and I'm just stuck in the same fucking life.

I am exquisitely tired. A filigree of days steeped in alcoholic terrors and nights slipping in and out of consciousness without will or knowledge. I drink during the day until I drink to fall asleep. Then I try and sleep until I pass out and dream about some decent liquor and my bitch of a sister dancing on my mother's grave. Which would be a weird dream if I hadn't seen it happen. I guess it's still a weird dream, but fuck off. What I wouldn't kill for a wet dream. Really anything other than the same dreams I have every goddamned night. Do you really read this? My sober enough to write drunk enough to not care what I write ramblings stained with grease and condensation from a plastic water bottle on whatever paper I shove into my typewriter. I think I sent the last rambling on the back of a letter I never sent. I need it back. I forgot to put postage on it. 8 times. Eventually the post office decided to send it. Or keep it. I'm tired.

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Wrighter IV

9/18/2012

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I sometimes get lost in my keyboard. Not literally lost, obviously that comes later when I realize the moldy rye and malt liquor are giving me crazy daytime dreams. About being a little tiny man stuck in the typewriter keys, praying its owner gives up letters and forms entirely and watches the tv and yells at his wife or cactus or kids like a normal fucking person. No. I just stare at them for hours. Sometimes unmoving, sometimes letting my fingers wander over them and depress, pressing ever so slightly so I can feel the give without touching ink to the page with a shark crack that means… I’ll probably need to press another one. And another one. And so on and so forth for another billion fucking keystrokes or so until my fingers are bloody and I need a whole bottle of white because in the every of middle page I started typing the letter g because I thought it was a beautiful woman. Curved and salacious, the temptress sitting in the centre of my needlessly qwerty board. It haunts me. Ghastly, greedy, grandiose, grating eye that stares at me when I’m too drunk to see but not stop typing. Like Braille it hastens to my every touch, appearing more often than possible. Great ginger greedily grasping at me gladly going where no man hasn’t gone, gone to galaxies trapped in the tiny dots who trace my every movement from the inside of my eyes when they’re open or closed.

I really need to stop taking the dog Prozac I stole from some rich bitch in conjunction with the expired sleeping pills and thought lost to an open waste bin. Because wow. Like. Fuck. You know? Of course you don’t. Anyone with enough money to pay me weekly for this crap and sick enough to enjoy it must be on something better. Horse Vicodin? Share? Of course not, I know, words go one way money goes the other. And I’m drained of my thoughts but the hamsters in your head keep making you rich. The friction from their little wheels absorbed by the yeti living in your chest.

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Wrighter III

8/15/2012

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Painkillers are a funny thing. In that, I spent 8 hours uncontrollably laughing after mixing nitrous oxide and Oxycontin. It’s an odd feeling to be laughing like a fucking madman while you pull muscles in your gut. Bust a gut. I get that now. Laughing while vomiting: the tried and true combinations of degenerates and drug addicts everywhere. Seriously, what the hell are you doing with these? This is the strangest way I’ve ever been paid; just write mail and blow the cash on a jar of peanut butter and 3 handles of plastic flavored vodka. There is a place I’ve found somewhere in the mix of eating to survive drinking to numb and living to see if something different happens tomorrow. There’s no point in living a shit life if every day after gets shittier. Of course, suicide seems a little extreme so if I just happen to fall off consciousness forever greased by the burning of gin there’s not much loss. And writing. This idea of scribbles somehow capturing what we say, or even sillier what we think. Shit. Thinking hurts. In my left temple and my right ankle. Pretty sure it’s from the thinking. Thinking is the leading cause of society, society is the leading cause of stupidity, stupidity is the leading cause of making more stupid people. Maybe I should have kids! Not like, mine, but ya know, an extra one. Just pop on down to the neighborhood orphanarium and grab someone to pass on my massive legacy of failure and drinking. See, thinking, society, kids, it’s all screwed up. Someone should fix it. Like a… plumber for society. With his ass crack of justice flashing every time he bends over to fix a dictator or crime or whatever analogy you’d like for a leak. My uncle was a plumber. for years he made plumb and true the pipes of our houses and other houses dumb enough to hire him around ours. Or maybe my uncle killed that plumber for... for... Whichever, the moral of the story is you can trust a family member with a pipe wrench if you're not paying them.

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Wrighter II

10/10/2011

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My sister says I need to join alcoholics anonymous. I tell her everyone knows I’m a goddamned alcoholic, so it’s not very anonymous. My sister is a bitch. And I don’t say this because she wants me to join a program. I say this because she acts like bitch. She has made fun of me every thanksgiving since she could talk. I only come home on thanksgiving because there’s enough food to keep me sober and my mother is a saint of a woman who doesn’t mind that I’m a degenerate drunk who’s only kept alive because you make money off my depressed ramblings. At least I think you make money off these, otherwise this would be a little creepy. Though I’ve never seen these published in a magazine. Though I haven’t read a magazine except for “highlight” and “pregnant today” at the free clinic. Soooo. I hate being too drunk to be poor. Wait. Too poor to be drunk. Though I suppose it goes both ways. Like the fat man who eats because he’s depressed and fat because he eats. Though I’m not fat and it doesn’t depress me that I drink. If I didn’t drink I think I’d go insane. They say alcohol drives people crazy but that’s obviously a lie. People drink to keep from going insane, the people that drink know they’re going insane anyway and they might as well forget about it for a few hours. I gleaned this information from a meeting outside an AA meeting my sister dropped me off at in exchange for forty bucks. She doesn’t care if I drink; she just likes to scare her kids with what might happen to them if they ever drink a single drop of alcohol. Of course they’ll go insane in college the first drink they have will somehow become 8 and they’ll wind up blowing a fellow drunk freshman behind the dorms. At least Billy will, that kid is gayer than a Liberace Elton John swirl. And his moronic mother is in denial, luckily for him I gave him the “be whoever the fuck you want to be speech” and I think that maybe next year when he gets into middle school it’ll sink in. Gay is the new black. People playing at something they’re not for social status and personal freedom knowing they can pretend for a few minutes without having to deal with the rest of their lives. And if I were sober enough to see the numbers on the word count I’d have proof this is enough for a case of ramen and three handles of plastic bottle gin. Hell, if you throw in a bonus I might even get a jug of pop to drink it with.

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Wrighter VI

Wrighter IV

Wrighter III

Wrighter II

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