Pabst drinker celebrates Pabst purchase with Pabst

Lone Man with Six Pack “partying”

Yes, I’ll have another. Why wouldn’t I?

I’m stealing my life from bits of the others. There is nothing new for me to do
but there are new things to feel, through doing the same things. A sentiment. A stunt double on death row. I’ve seen people try to reference others, sharing – why apologize for empathy? It’s one way – I respect it – maybe I respect too much. Sometimes I feel guilty for not being enough of an asshole.

The further I go down this path, the less I can say, the words drain, feelings amplify. It becomes a blooming buzz to behold. Escallates the war with myself. Why don’t I just call bad writing “first principles” and start from there. Justify everything, but not rationalize. This is way too fragmented, but it’s honest. We all have our paths to honesty. I’m transcribing my stream of fucked up consciousness with fidelity, although it’s also filtered through stylized, over-written prose. I have referenced real people in the past

It’s sad that such passions seem so illicit when certain states wear off. “Certain states”, heh, pussy boy euphemism. Like I can’t say that I’m talking about being fucked up, drug induced. Like I’d rather encompass that, but make it vague, so it could mean more things. Well, drugs were romantic for me once, they still are I guess, but now they’re more like romance novels, daniel steel paperbacks, worn, trite. But I keep reading them. Writing them.

Well that’s because when I’m fucked up, but still articulate, by some stretch of the imagination, I find it very meaningful. In fact the only meaningful thing is to talk about my warping state of mind. It was profound and it is profound, but I can’t really do anything with it. I can’t write any satifying whole here, cause my outlook is changing too rapidly, and yet there’s a general fucked up mood to this situation, I’m failing to encapsulate it, but maybe it comes through anyway.

Sometimes I get so needy it scares me, but the need evaporates eventually, mercifully, to lie dormant for a short season, the manic end of the two week cycle, to strike again, when I least need it. Voids. There’s got to be a level of mental weariness never felt until this time. The imprint of the information age is just beginning to be noticed, I think. But theories end up disappointing. I guess everything ends up disappointing, because I’m in a fucked up state of mind right now.

Tonight, I did the open stage thing. It was one of those. Some music. Nothing I need for my scrapbook. I want to let my hand slAck, let slip the expectations, all of them, feel the weight drop. My lovely lack of need. For memories. For people. I’ll forget them all. Lest I be vexed. Even if they’re good strong memories, good strong people – so what? I’ll let them die anyway.

Now I can’t help thinking about death. Remember, adults, considering suicide isn’t the same thing as wanting to kill yourself. It’s just fun to think about. The ideal of peace. It’s funny when you think about it. A short term solution to your problems. But it’s also emblematic as something resembling “eternal peace” – emblematic, who knows what it really is? But you’d think it would be a pretty lasting decision, in some kind of way. It’s fun to think that I’d rather kill myself than continue to look for work – the whole thing is ridiculous. I’m utterly perverse in this society. I don’t belong. And yet, I have integrated vastly – I wasn’t “born yesterday” – I now have massive empathy with all kinds of people – understanding of how they think and feel – and yet I’m still out of place. Let’s not call it aspergers, cause that sounds like a vegetable, and I don’t want to ride the short bus for chess masters. Fuck that. And my eccentric suit hasn’t fit in years. It’s not my strong suit. I just love the idea of dying – it’s a beautiful idea. I’m just fucked up right now, that’s all. But now, I won’t disavow this, I’ve already signed a waver.