time

i want her to find more than one or two nights a month to spend with me. is that so wrong? and if not, can i be forgiven for a day of fucking fury? no? too god damn bad. i have enough to be angry about that i'd feel justified in stalking about for months straight in a cold rage. but i don't. i choose today. happy fucking memorial day.

mix

so i've been spending some time at a website. people play music at each other in chatrooms, from a database or easily and quickly uploaded from your computer. it might not last long, but it's fun.

someone just played the stranglers' "golden brown", which i haven't heard in... some years. "remember snatch?" says someone, as everyone erupts into nostalgia, "with brad pitt?" yeah, dammit, that's how i know the song too. the first time i saw the movie, it was with my head in ( )'s lap. it was the first thing we did together, after we knew each other for however many damn years.

and then, earlier, right? as my longtime friend (who i've never met) is talking about all his online crushes over the internet and how none of them have ever amounted to anything, which is kinda the point, my own online crush - the first one, actually - gets fed some absinthe and takes to facebook for comfort, which i'm vicariously able to provide. from a thousand miles away.

what's my point, tonight? the internet has made the world into a very, very strange place.

nothing new for you to glean today

wishes

(preface: written last night, 6AMish. right now, i am barely functional.)

what can i say? she snores like a steamboat. still, all things considered, not a bad way to start armageddeon. the sky is still above us, and i see nothing on fire. she seems content to sink beneath the waves, tanned and smiling, and i can't fault her for that. i'd be a hypocrite if i did; i expect the same for myself, except the tan will be from fire and the waves will be of earth. nonetheless, i too will sink. so will you.

i stood, leaning against the wall, drawing stories and conclusions. he's gay. she's not into him. he wants to bang, and doesn't care who - there are plenty of good candidates (as long as he keeps his eyes off my little unsexed prize - which he did). she's not into anyone here. she, though, is. he's bored of beer pong. she's a fag hag. whatever. i've seen these stories before, in similar settings. they have nothing to offer me but youth, which i take willingly.

when she was about to enter high school, i was roaming the west coast, drunk and stoned and lost without willing to admit it. when she was a dancer, freshman year of high school, i was bartending. when she was referring to the early 2000s as 'early millenium', i was shaking my head and being stunned by a phrase i had never heard before. is this the part where i'm supposed to feel too old, too disconnected, too out of place? because it didn't work. i'm still dedicated to this trainwreck. can you stop me? because nobody else seems to be able to, myself included.

i keep telling myself it'll last a year, tops. but what if it doesn't? what if she convinces me to move to california with her (despite my inability to swim; that'll be a real hazard when our neighborhood is just another square mile of arizona bay)? or, dog forbid ('dog' instead of 'god' wasn't just a drunken typo, i guess), what if she gets too attached, decides not to go, decides to stay here? oh christ, what next?

i guess i'll need to learn to love again. but that'll take time, dedication, consistency, not this 'a few times every couple months' bullshit. i need tutoring to get back into this game. drunk or not, i'm not even sure fucking is an option right now.

it's not. she's asleep. not snoring as bad as she was. i still haven't told her i love her. i haven't said other things either, things i swore i'd say next time we were alone. a few times considered saying it in passing; "i love you, darlin', but etcetera," etcetera. it is hard to type etcetera when drunk - observations. i'm still somewhat functional. though not enough so to put my dick in her, even if she were awake. what about tomorrow, though? who knows; we'll see then.

i worry too much. i don't know what i worry about. angels and devils, matching drink for drink as we all smoke too many cigarettes. sometimes i'm the angel, sometimes the devil, usually just the poor hapless human watching the whole thing. (i'm really just killing time here until that bread i ate soaks up enough of the alcohol in my stomach to let me close my eyes without getting the spins.) i'm okay with that, though. it's important to be okay with your lot in life. aldous huxley taught me that, though maybe his intention was the opposite, that none of us should be okay with their destiny. or maybe. maybe. destiny is fickle fuckle.

i wish i were the same as other people, that a night like this weren't spent writing and writing. i'd like to sleep. i work in too few hours, for too many hours, for accolades and recognition i might never receive. i don't care enough about my job. it's a stepping stone, though to what i don't know. i don't want to be working in a kitchen when i'm 40, but i might be anyway. you can't always get what you want... i think i heard that in a song, once. i also heard other things.

she's stirring. i wish she'd stir back onto me. but it'd just start the snoring again. i lack mattress space. i lack dedication. i lack dilligence. i lack patience. i lack, i lack. what about what i have? a gorgeous girl asleep (she's snoring again anyway) right next to me, a dog laying guard in the door i wish could be closed.

she's talking in her sleep. it's adorable. i wish i could be happy, i wish, i wish....

(postlude: the final bit is radiohead, and the cut off end of the lyric is 'i wish that something would happen." as i was typing the last two words, she stirred awake, then inexplicably went into the closet for a few minutes. i'm not being metaphorical; she got up, opened the closet door, and went inside. when i went over to ask if she was okay, she said "yeah, i'm good; get out of my closet, i'll be out in twenty, thirty minutes." i went back and laid down, and about two minutes later she came out and curled back up on my shoulder. i told her i'd ask her to explain in the morning, and when the morning came, i asked her, and she had no idea what i was talking about. my point? something happened. i guess i wished hard enough. i guess i should've been more specific.)

irony

i dreamt i watched the world slowly burning

there was fire everywhere, so i started running until i could find someplace where there was no more fire, i ran through both american coasts and zigzagged across the heartlands until i wound up in my grandparents' house

except it wasn't their's anymore, it was my parents', and the woods were gone and the hills were all rocky and jagged because my grandfather's dying act had been to sign the whole chunk of land over to paper companies and coal miners

now it seemed like incredible foresight, and as i came up the weirdly exposed hills the smoke on the distance seemed less threatening, and after i got there and hugged my parents, you came in, because you had followed me all along those same coasts and heartlands and hills; i was dreaming, remember, and i wanted you with me so bad in any world that you had no choice but to appear

that night my parents were in the living room, mom was watching tv with her back to the big glass doors leading onto the porch which looked out over a few dozen miles of countryside and towns, but her chair had been dragged over to that side of the room; she was holding hands with my dad, who was standing, watching determinedly out the window as the fires approached; you were somewhere in the back, lounging, tired from all the travel

i stood next to dad for a while watching the fire, watching it collect in heaps and roll off the sides of other hills like lavaflows, watching it gather behind silhouetted trees, then fewer silhouetted trees, then even fewer, until it was just a pulsating red glow around a single burning tree, which then too would fall

then, i said, "i should be out there taking pictures," and nobody stopped me (because this was a dream and i didn't want anyone to stop me), so i went and grabbed my camera, and asked if you wanted to come with, and when you said yes (still a dream, i wanted you there with me) i was surprised (didn't know i was dreaming) but happy

woke up smiling about the irony of taking a photo of the apocalypse

rapture

i don't tell people this blog exists. if you found it, good job - you either did a google search or got lucky some other way. your reward for whatever sleuthing you did is a regularly unrepressed me, and all the things i don't otherwise say. some of it will be pretty gritty, but they won't always be particularly shocking.

for instance, i hate how sometimes i go to use the microwave, and i see the numbers on it and i think, oh, the last person who used it pulled their shit out before it was over and didn't reset the time. then i hit reset a few times and nothing happens, and then it's like, shit, it's late.

i think macho man randy savage was just trying to beat the rush. i'm thinking about writing a short story about how he convinced god to put off the rapture. i gotta wait a few days, though, because what if i stay up all night writing it, then the rapture happens? egg on my face, damn. that's a joke that i can only make tonight. tonight, when i'm sitting here thinking, damn, what if the rapture happens? would anyone notice unless it was televised? would it be covered by the mainstream media? or will i see it popping up on the fringe for months, scattered reports of persons missing, presumed raptured? i mean, i don't think anyone i know would be. i hope my parents would be, because as their only son i want to think the best of them, which means they're good enough people to go to heaven and get the hell out of my life without the whole horror of their natural deaths. but i don't think they were, they're probably sinners like me and everyone i know, so i'll have them here to help me ride out armageddon. it's probably for the best.

talking about my parents' sins, and weighing the pros and cons of their persistance in a post-rapture world. heavy shit, right? just as promised. sorta.

i wrote a book. actually i've now written something like five, or six. actually, i'd only call it a book of it's over 100 pages, so maybe four? i don't think anyone has read them. one of my roommates claims to, but he'll claim anything. i wonder how much is true, sometimes; i let it be a silent faith, for the most part. maybe some other people have; god knows i've sent them out enough times, both by request and otherwise, but i never get feedback. people don't read, and when they do their first reaction is so rarely, "oh, shit, i gotta go talk to the author now." it's the sort of fame that allows you to stay the fuck away from people, but it's the sort of fame where you're not sure if you're famous until your books are lining the shelf and you've got an episode of Family GUy saved to the TiVo where they reference you or one of your stories. but if you're that guy then you're probably out doing book signings and readings and shit like that... i wouldn't want to do that, wouldn't know what to do, never been to one, never wanted to go to one. i don't understand that sort of reader, really. i don't understand any sort of reader, or any sort of person. i pretend to. but i don't. i want everyone to be perfect, i want everyone to be pure evil, i want everyone to aspire to more, i want everyone to relax more. contradictions, contradictions, but it's an okay sort of paradox, because none of it's true. fictional paradox.

what are we doing here? i think i was complaining about nobody reading the stories i spend so many sleepless nights transcribing from the muse whispering frantically (i think she's a coke addict now) in my ear. i was also mourning the loss of a childhood hero, and thinking about my parents. i hope they're doing okay, my parents, randy savage, my unread stories. they're all aging, but none of them are wine, their birth dates may as well be predicted expiration dates. macho man's was yesterday.

sigh. one last thought: if tomorrow were my last day on earth as i know it, my only regret is that i will not wake up that morning next to something beautiful. i'd consider it a betrayal, almost, if she were capable of hurting me that badly, if she didn't have such a damn good excuse (as always), if i weren't so damned congested and shitty right now in the first place. maybe i'll get to wake up to an angel in armageddon's first dawn, though. that'd be nice.

preparing

everybody is quietly preparing in their own ways. drinking, fucking, saying i'm sorry, or i love you. if there's one good thing about these constant end-of-the-world scares, it is that each one forces a certain level of genuine honesty out of all the people willing to believe... and each time, there are more believers. the internet has helped with that, little 19-year-old flirt that she is.

perhaps the end will come when we all believe it will come.

perhaps, then, the end will never come, because too many of us can't believe in anything.

i don't believe in you, for starters...

sorry

i didn't mean to ruin your entire fucking day, by saying something you already knew, which barely effects you. if the rapture is coming, maybe i'd like to wake up that morning in the arms of something beautiful. you know? nevermind. you don't.

normally when my brain and vocal cords slowly turn into crap and escape via throat and nose, its winter. it didnt happen this winter, or last. its happening now, though maybe a little accelerated - feelin' better, as they say. doesn't sound like i'm speaking out of a cave anymore.

lord, please grant me the strength to make her cry your name.

2am

its a my bloody valentine kinda night. not feeling exactly loveless, but close enough.

there was fog on the lake today. you couldn't see more than a quarter mile in any direction. mist rising up so suddenly that it looked like the water was on fire. i worked for six hours in a little bubble, and if anything happened in the world outside of my little quarter-mile radius, i don't know about it.

i'm a little more sick than i'd like to be. maybe it's the indecision. cough, sneeze.

it's true, i do, take care, take care

if you attack the village, the soldiers will be forced to meet you there, leaving the castle unguarded.
if you are so minded, this is your opportunity to strike.