My life seems very long, right up until I read something I had written. I read over some musings or ideas or complaints or triumphs of the human spirits imagined or real, and it could have been a week ago, a month at the most I scribed it. Until I look at the date and see years have passed. Passed along with relationships jobs apartments feuds bets and cares. Yet somehow my writing remains at most a month away. I look back and see how little I’ve written, how little of myself I’ve penned for later me or god forbid anyone but you to see. My memory can barely hold my bitch sister’s name and her slew of kids. Wait, one kid, Michael. He’s just so sweepingly flamboyant it seems like there’re eight of him when I’m drunk. And I’m usually drunk. Not that that’s a bad thing (the flamboyancy) he just has a certain ardent fluidity that looks like a time delay shot on a camera when he moves. His mom has finally admitted that he’s gay, but she calls it “cute” or “a little phase”. Same way she described by alcohol “problem” when I had my first full week blacked out. So we can pretty much discount that theory. No, he’ll be fine. Gay indeed! Maybe next time I’ll start drinking AFTER I start writing one of these. It’s just too damn depressing, babbling ink through a rusty typewriter for a fucking check. But, it’ll be a good goal. Almost forgot what it was like to have one of those. Because drinking isn’t a goal, it a tactic. Drunk just helps me achieve my goal of not thinking about my shitty life for a bit. God damn it I’m a depressing fuck. Maybe I’ll do some community service. Though I seem to remember me being someone’s community service, so maybe I’ll just try to stop being such a whiney shit. The cockroaches look happy, why shouldn’t I be as happy as them? Because they live rent free! Why is my typewriter rusty?
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.
It's silently slipping, that nonsensical something of ephemeral beauty and fear. Slipping down a drain made of rusted iron irate its life lost leaking dripping down through the ceiling below to an equally empty apartment. Rent reaffirms nature: natural selection pits stayers and goers, hold downers and throwers to the wind of perceived wrongs and rights preached from the pulpits of television and masters of media. Yet the master media is not merely alive but live, three feet in front two steps back and willing to slap you silly if you step out of line.
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