1) Go and Tell your crippled friend I eat meat.
2) It was dark outside and there was a smell.
3) I'm not so bad. REALLY.
4) The harmonica lay there, forgotten, under the sock.
5) One Beer? REALLY?
6) When do We get to wear the Blue Suit?
7) Egypt: Give us our free!
8) Movies are snack vehicles.
9) My Helper: God bless her!
10) People I hate:
11) I'll pump my own gas if I want to!
12) I hate it when:
13) Steve 4000
14) Voice of the Night
15) I'm stronger than you, and probably smarter, too:
16) Japanese People = Horrifying.
17) My heart hurts.
18) Mother? It's Me!
19) I hate this fucking car
20) I'm not getting any younger:
21) I'm human and I want to be loved.
22) Jesus? Really?
23) Politics are Boring
24) He is Watching Us
25) Ancients Grains : Good for you?
26) Ever think about dreams? REALLY?
27) I actually have a GOOD attitude!
28) My keys: Where are they?
29) I used to be Young
30) Girls with names that start with the letter 'A' :
31) I have secrets too
32) Pete Lark creeps me out
33) Love ME
34) I know where Gobo Goes:
35) I got Worms!
36) Take me to the Heaven of your bed
37) Renaud's Syndrome: REALLY?
38) I Want You to Want Me.
39) Feelin' for Reelin'
40) I'll turn it down. I will.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Losing is the new Winning!
He wanted a drink, and he wanted one badly.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, there was a pain he detected there as well, and he just KNEW with one drink, maybe one beer(?!), it would go away. The anxiety? He could vanish that shit lickety-split. He recognized the signals his body was sending him: Please Add Alcohol.
It had been a few months already though, and a promise IS a promise, at least as long as you are still speaking to the person you made the promise to, as far as he was concerned. As bad as he wanted that drink, he was also a little worried about what it could do to him. This last year was a good example of what a drink or two could lead to, and it was not a pretty year, not as it unfolded, and was not likely to ever become pretty, even in hindsight. It wasn't all the fault of a failure of willpower, but it seems most of the times he got in trouble he had been imbibing.
He needed to do SOMETHING though, that was the problem. He couldn't keep pacing around the building from room to room worrying about the pain in his chest, he needed a release, and he couldn't buy anymore doors or sheetrock. The cops confiscated and destroyed his gun this last summer, so he couldn't cut the tension with a few sharp satisfying muzzle flashes into the night either. He had no extra cars to skid around in and wreck, none that were his, anyway.
He promised not to drink, he thought, he promised he would not drink... and there was an implied promise of not ruining future plans, there was no extra money now for violation fees or bail, but there had been no discussion of a little fight. If he was careful? He knew if he could engage out in the street, outside of an established business, the police would probably not be called.
It had been almost a year since his knuckles had greeted whiskered cheeks, or his own cheeks suffered the knuckles of another stumbling, slurring man. It was true he had been drinking every other time he had engaged in such activity, but that did not mean he HAD to drink in order to fight, did it? In fact, he wanted to hit people quite often when perfectly sober. He was now puzzled as to why this idea did not occur to him sooner - Why did he have to drink in order to get in a fight?
There was a time when he would avoid fights. When he was younger and softer, afraid of pain and scars and manly behavior and bearded baseball-hat wearing men, men who just-got-off-work and were manly men, men who did not look away first, men who would mutter insults at him when drinking beer, he feared these men and their confidence. They must be sure of themselves for a reason, he reckoned.
Well, this man, the man in our story here, he grew up eventually, and learned that these bearded men with their Carharts and plaid shirts and motorcycle boots and tattoos were mainly a lot of hot air. Our Man, the man we are discussing here in our story, he learned that if he kept looking, these other men would look away first. Those rare times the other man did not look away first? Words may be exchanged, and if push came to shove, he learned not to stand and box, but to tackle instead, momentum became his friend, and he would quickly be on top of the offending party and force them to do or say something humiliating in order to be released. If they would not, or if resistance was maintained, he would be forced to resort to punching. He also learned to be aware of his blind spots and not mount the offensive party in such a way as to expose his back to any portion of the patronage or potential cohorts of the party in question. The Real Deal here boiled down to a couple simple questions: Can you punch someone in the face real hard? Are you willing to be punched in the face real hard? It looks easy in movies, but gathering the nerve to hit someone in the face, hard, is no simple effort. If you are a civilized person (and this man certainly was one), the idea may cause you worry at first. But. Once you do it the first time though? You never go back. Like buying good socks. There was an evolution.
He enjoyed these times. Even when he 'lost', he felt he still won. His confidence in such matters soared, and he learned a new trick or two every now and then. These were good times! The police were rarely scrambled into duty, and he displayed a certain charm that kept him out of serious trouble, even when confronted by the law.
So, on this certain evening that this particular man we are talking about here wanted a drink real bad, he decided that maybe he did not have to have a drink, but maybe he could just get into a fight with some poor bastard out there in the real world? SUUUUUuuuuuure. Even if he were to get knocked out, he enjoyed pain, did not fear it, (but did not enjoy the humiliation so much) and would still consider himself 'ahead' of this chest-pain-thing and the pacing.
He made up his mind. It was seven o'clock in the evening on a weekday. Prime Mantime out in Barworld. He went to his room and put on a pair of not-favorite-jeans, some steel-toed boots (if it came to kicking, he wanted to be prepared), his 'Obama Rocks!' t-shirt and did some stretches, popped his knuckles a few times, smoothed his hair over to one side, and got into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and applied some of Her mascara to his eyelashes until he looked like Amy Winehouse. The he got into his car and headed out to a bar NOT in the immediate area, but instead a bar where he would not be recognized, in case the police were called. He could not risk any more fines this year. He had plans in the upcoming months and he had to be careful. He had things to look forward to.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, there was a pain he detected there as well, and he just KNEW with one drink, maybe one beer(?!), it would go away. The anxiety? He could vanish that shit lickety-split. He recognized the signals his body was sending him: Please Add Alcohol.
It had been a few months already though, and a promise IS a promise, at least as long as you are still speaking to the person you made the promise to, as far as he was concerned. As bad as he wanted that drink, he was also a little worried about what it could do to him. This last year was a good example of what a drink or two could lead to, and it was not a pretty year, not as it unfolded, and was not likely to ever become pretty, even in hindsight. It wasn't all the fault of a failure of willpower, but it seems most of the times he got in trouble he had been imbibing.
He needed to do SOMETHING though, that was the problem. He couldn't keep pacing around the building from room to room worrying about the pain in his chest, he needed a release, and he couldn't buy anymore doors or sheetrock. The cops confiscated and destroyed his gun this last summer, so he couldn't cut the tension with a few sharp satisfying muzzle flashes into the night either. He had no extra cars to skid around in and wreck, none that were his, anyway.
He promised not to drink, he thought, he promised he would not drink... and there was an implied promise of not ruining future plans, there was no extra money now for violation fees or bail, but there had been no discussion of a little fight. If he was careful? He knew if he could engage out in the street, outside of an established business, the police would probably not be called.
It had been almost a year since his knuckles had greeted whiskered cheeks, or his own cheeks suffered the knuckles of another stumbling, slurring man. It was true he had been drinking every other time he had engaged in such activity, but that did not mean he HAD to drink in order to fight, did it? In fact, he wanted to hit people quite often when perfectly sober. He was now puzzled as to why this idea did not occur to him sooner - Why did he have to drink in order to get in a fight?
There was a time when he would avoid fights. When he was younger and softer, afraid of pain and scars and manly behavior and bearded baseball-hat wearing men, men who just-got-off-work and were manly men, men who did not look away first, men who would mutter insults at him when drinking beer, he feared these men and their confidence. They must be sure of themselves for a reason, he reckoned.
Well, this man, the man in our story here, he grew up eventually, and learned that these bearded men with their Carharts and plaid shirts and motorcycle boots and tattoos were mainly a lot of hot air. Our Man, the man we are discussing here in our story, he learned that if he kept looking, these other men would look away first. Those rare times the other man did not look away first? Words may be exchanged, and if push came to shove, he learned not to stand and box, but to tackle instead, momentum became his friend, and he would quickly be on top of the offending party and force them to do or say something humiliating in order to be released. If they would not, or if resistance was maintained, he would be forced to resort to punching. He also learned to be aware of his blind spots and not mount the offensive party in such a way as to expose his back to any portion of the patronage or potential cohorts of the party in question. The Real Deal here boiled down to a couple simple questions: Can you punch someone in the face real hard? Are you willing to be punched in the face real hard? It looks easy in movies, but gathering the nerve to hit someone in the face, hard, is no simple effort. If you are a civilized person (and this man certainly was one), the idea may cause you worry at first. But. Once you do it the first time though? You never go back. Like buying good socks. There was an evolution.
He enjoyed these times. Even when he 'lost', he felt he still won. His confidence in such matters soared, and he learned a new trick or two every now and then. These were good times! The police were rarely scrambled into duty, and he displayed a certain charm that kept him out of serious trouble, even when confronted by the law.
So, on this certain evening that this particular man we are talking about here wanted a drink real bad, he decided that maybe he did not have to have a drink, but maybe he could just get into a fight with some poor bastard out there in the real world? SUUUUUuuuuuure. Even if he were to get knocked out, he enjoyed pain, did not fear it, (but did not enjoy the humiliation so much) and would still consider himself 'ahead' of this chest-pain-thing and the pacing.
He made up his mind. It was seven o'clock in the evening on a weekday. Prime Mantime out in Barworld. He went to his room and put on a pair of not-favorite-jeans, some steel-toed boots (if it came to kicking, he wanted to be prepared), his 'Obama Rocks!' t-shirt and did some stretches, popped his knuckles a few times, smoothed his hair over to one side, and got into the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and applied some of Her mascara to his eyelashes until he looked like Amy Winehouse. The he got into his car and headed out to a bar NOT in the immediate area, but instead a bar where he would not be recognized, in case the police were called. He could not risk any more fines this year. He had plans in the upcoming months and he had to be careful. He had things to look forward to.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Well, THAT passed. Now I'm hungry again.
It is true: I was beginning to feel unhappy or depressed or something of that nature again today. Is it just the money thing? I don't think so. I experience a bit of frustration about other things, but I am able to remind myself just how shitty things can feel, how unlucky a person can become, and anything bothering me shrivels in comparison.
So: The Safeway Walk. It has become a much-abbreviated-yet-similar-excursion to the Bridge Walk. I can do a loop to Safeway in about ten minutes, including checkout. My mind still drifts and pponders about the thoughts of the day and problems if any, or can frolic in a happy thought if one exists. .. ? What was my point? I don't remember exactly, but I returned from Safeway in a good mood. An excellent mood? I became aware of a sensation I was having, I felt like this ship was just about to set sail, and I am on board. I think you are going to be here with me, or I will run into you out there somewhere. I don't know if these are crazy thoughts or not. Are they? I think you are going with me. In my mind you are with me, going with me.
This shit here is good shit. This is the good shit. This is going to be a particularly productive month, and if it is not, forget about everything, because I know for myself, I am not going to feel more optimistic and industrious again as I do now, and short of winning the lottery this is not going to get any closer by itself. So, do your part and then pack your shit.
I have other more interesting things to type. I am going to go do that soon, now I have other things I have to attend to out in that fucking big room full of cars.
So: The Safeway Walk. It has become a much-abbreviated-yet-similar-excursion to the Bridge Walk. I can do a loop to Safeway in about ten minutes, including checkout. My mind still drifts and pponders about the thoughts of the day and problems if any, or can frolic in a happy thought if one exists. .. ? What was my point? I don't remember exactly, but I returned from Safeway in a good mood. An excellent mood? I became aware of a sensation I was having, I felt like this ship was just about to set sail, and I am on board. I think you are going to be here with me, or I will run into you out there somewhere. I don't know if these are crazy thoughts or not. Are they? I think you are going with me. In my mind you are with me, going with me.
This shit here is good shit. This is the good shit. This is going to be a particularly productive month, and if it is not, forget about everything, because I know for myself, I am not going to feel more optimistic and industrious again as I do now, and short of winning the lottery this is not going to get any closer by itself. So, do your part and then pack your shit.
I have other more interesting things to type. I am going to go do that soon, now I have other things I have to attend to out in that fucking big room full of cars.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The World is Our Motherfucking Oyster
I am very pleased right now.
Need I remind you of the Sudoku of Emotions the world can prove to be sometimes? Sometimes a bitter harvest, and then all of a sudden - BOOM!- a generous bounty spills forth. Jackpot! Eureka! Jesus!
I am tired, I should not be typing, and I am certainly in no condition to type and post, but I probably will, because I enjoy the satisfaction I experience by thinking you may read this. It is the same feeling I have for the six hours after I buy a lottery ticket, before I check it and find out it whether or not it is a winner. During that time? The feeling I have? I am ENTITLED to feel good and optimistic. It is worth the three dollars. (This feeling now is worth MORE than three dollars, by the way. PRICEFUCKINGLESS, this) Well, that is how I feel when I slap my shit up here for you to hopefully read. I feel like this may be an action I can perform which will initiate some fantastical series of events culminating in an incredible and oh-so-cozy conclusion which will warm the hearts of the Viewers at Home.
The point is, I feel very good. Walking back from Safeway, and avoiding the pile of Rotel by the Post Office altogether, my mind felt especially clear and my heart especially light. No more thick suffocating black. The change so pronounced from what it has felt like for months and months I thought I must be dreaming. Or very tired. Or possibly under medicated. I prefer to think I am just happy though. This will be a great year. You know this, right? You know. You can tell. There is no need to worry, there is nothing to be helped or avoided or denied. This world is to be enjoyed when the opportunity presents itself, because very quickly things change and everything is different, and it seems that only things not enjoyed or not taken advantage of are the things which are later regretted. This seems to be the rule, this seems to be the way in which things play out, these are the patterns.
This is good. I am going to go to sleep soon unburdened and calm, and even happy.
Need I remind you of the Sudoku of Emotions the world can prove to be sometimes? Sometimes a bitter harvest, and then all of a sudden - BOOM!- a generous bounty spills forth. Jackpot! Eureka! Jesus!
I am tired, I should not be typing, and I am certainly in no condition to type and post, but I probably will, because I enjoy the satisfaction I experience by thinking you may read this. It is the same feeling I have for the six hours after I buy a lottery ticket, before I check it and find out it whether or not it is a winner. During that time? The feeling I have? I am ENTITLED to feel good and optimistic. It is worth the three dollars. (This feeling now is worth MORE than three dollars, by the way. PRICEFUCKINGLESS, this) Well, that is how I feel when I slap my shit up here for you to hopefully read. I feel like this may be an action I can perform which will initiate some fantastical series of events culminating in an incredible and oh-so-cozy conclusion which will warm the hearts of the Viewers at Home.
The point is, I feel very good. Walking back from Safeway, and avoiding the pile of Rotel by the Post Office altogether, my mind felt especially clear and my heart especially light. No more thick suffocating black. The change so pronounced from what it has felt like for months and months I thought I must be dreaming. Or very tired. Or possibly under medicated. I prefer to think I am just happy though. This will be a great year. You know this, right? You know. You can tell. There is no need to worry, there is nothing to be helped or avoided or denied. This world is to be enjoyed when the opportunity presents itself, because very quickly things change and everything is different, and it seems that only things not enjoyed or not taken advantage of are the things which are later regretted. This seems to be the rule, this seems to be the way in which things play out, these are the patterns.
This is good. I am going to go to sleep soon unburdened and calm, and even happy.
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