Leave me a message and maybe I'll let you in on where I am.
I don't fucking understand women. Or karma. Or being good, for that matter. I don't understand why I don't learn when I fuck things up. I can't even make one specific person happy. I can't make them stay happy. I can't keep them happy.
As if they night couldn't get any worse, I took a walk to clear my head. Except for that one summer, I never liked taking walks when things are nice. It has to be raining. It has to be freezing for me to enjoy myself. When I have things on my mind, when it's uncomfortable, this is what I do. I took my dog and he ran away. Again. This is what happens when things can't get any worse.
It took me an hour to track him down and what felt like even longer trying to get him to come near me. I only let him outside so I didn't have to walk him to the leash. Give a person a little slack and they will bolt on you. Don't pet them enough and they don't want to come near you.
If I'm being horrible, I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't think I've done anything wrong. Not this time.
I could taste the vomit in my mouth when I woke up this morning. It was accumulating in the back of my throat and burned away at my uvula. I've been waking up with stomach pain and chest pain lately but this is the first time I've actually thrown up in my sleep. If my alarm didn't go off, I would have suffocated. No. I don't know that. My stomach might be bleeding. Maybe just an ulcer. Or worse. Who wants to know that? If you could choose between living with a terminal disease or never knowing something was wrong with you, what would you choose? Ignorance is bliss. If someone close to you was dying already, if your family was already grieving, would you put them through the bother of having to deal with another?
If I could do it all over again, I wouldn't have got out of bed this morning. Wouldn't have thrown up again. Wouldn't have seen her screaming from a wheelchair across the room with eyes half shut. Wouldn't have fought with her because that's all I'm capable anymore. You and I are like when fire and the ocean floor collide. We're drifting apart and I know I'm to blame. I am unable to apologize and incapable of doing it enough.
As the lady checked me today, I could feel my pulse racing. It's never done that before. "Are you nervous?" She asked me. I wanted to say yes, but I didn't know how to answer. Nervous about what? Should I stop at one?
Philadelphia isn't going to happen. Paramus isn't going to happen. New York isn't going to happen. Key West was a long shot in the first place. It takes a disaster to get me to leave town, what's it gonna take to get me to drop anchor somewhere else?
I'm tired of arguing but I can't apologize because that only makes things worse. I make things worse. Bigmouth strikes again. And I've got no right to take my place with the human race.
"You like the fireworks?" I asked my niece. It was New Year's Eve and we were outside on her porch. I was tipsy from Caramel Vodka and at the beginnings of a headache. She had been awake for all of 3 minutes and had to rub her eyes to see them. The whole time, she squinted and covered her ears. Loud pops were going all around and it was hard to tell the difference between fireworks and gunshots. It was that type of neighborhood. When the sky was dark and I could still hear the pops, it was time to go back inside.
She clutched my chest and started to fall back asleep. "They were okay."
Watching her play Guitar Hero has me wishing my PS2 worked. By now, it would probably cost almost as much to fix it was it would for a new one. I'm not a big gamer but I have been known to give in to Smackdown in the past. Guitar Hero is fun and has some nice tunes but I already have three guitars in the closet. Three. All of them need new strings that I've been neglecting for quite some time now. Maybe that's the creative output I need.
It's 2 AM and I'm so tired I'm delirious, drinking something green out of a plastic bottle shaped like a barrel. I know I'm delirious because I'm reading the blogs and feelings artsy and thinking I'm a writer. To be a writer, I have to stop being afraid to show what I can do and I can't do that. No way, Jose. I joke about being hardcore because I'm everything but.
I have 30 gigs of free space on my 170 gig hard drive because I'm such a fucking pack rat, I never want to get rid of anything. Not even that which is digital. I can't sit through shuffle without wanting to skip every other song because it's some indie crap that I can't stand most of the time except for times like this. You suck, Undertones. Don't try to convince me otherwise.
I want to go back to bathesda's, I thrift store I used to visit all the time with Holly Hox. She had that style, the type of girl who could fashion a dress out of a garbage bag. The girl who never had a bad photograph. I spent my money on useless shit and I want to go back and do that again. Buy another album because Colonel Sanders is on the cover. Find that ghetto blaster. Go back to the comic book store and see what I've missed.
My exgirlfriend would paint or make collages at times like these. I sit and think. I need to stop this. I need to make something productive out of it.