2/23/17

the only girl he loves he will never be with. each day he is cover in flecks of tobacco, dried splotches of blood, and the stench of fast food pizza. each day he carries multiple ink pens taken from banks, loose change, car keys, a pocket knife where only the knife, scissor, and saw portions are not permanently stuck in the contraption, and two bottles of pepper spray. he doesn't like other people. he needs protection from them, but he also knows he needs to interact. he needs friends. interaction. he can't forever be alone.

he thinks money wouldn't make him happy, but would make life easier.

he realized recently that he is more or less dead already. or a better way to put it is the difference between his life, and being dead is minuscule at best. get up. work til close. go to the doughnut shop to use the internet and eat two bavarian cream doughnuts. drive to the hotel parking lot. then sleep. wake up sleep. wake up. sleep. until it is time to work again. listening to sports talk radio in order to figure out how people can host a radio show or even call in without having a full blown anxiety  attack. seven days a week. he wishes he could to talk to the only girl he loves but will never be with every day but she is busy, and also likes to be alone. she is productive, and actually makes a difference in other people's lives and the world; he does not.

she lives what he would guess is seven to eight hours away.

they have never met face to face.

she has the habit of disappearing for sometimes years, and then contacting him again, but it's okay because the only time he truly feels happy is whenever they talk.

due to surreptitious life he lives, he lies to people, and some of the times he can't explain why.

due to the repetitive surreptitious life he lives, and his inability to cope, he doubts they will ever actually meet in person.

listening to the sounds of people socializing on cellphones, in person, over the internet, radio, or on tv mixed together with the natural sounds of the world and cars passing by, he knows it won't be much longer now.

coming soon:

a piece about a band i like, my last time in vermont, how three of their members hate me, how one is one of my best friends, a lesbian goose that also hates me, a person named natty who acted nice but hates me, james spurloc, kombuk, how much i love him. sucking dicks of bands who are on record labels, kombucha juice, the basement that phish played their first show in, being different to be different, which makes you the same, anxiety, depression, suicide, survival, appreciation, and why i will never be a successful artist. cigarettes, drugs, beer, and stray kitty cats will be included. sorry no sex or twitter, facebook, snapchat or any other social media.

and maybe a ghetto bible of self loathing for people who liked to be by themselves except for every now and again.

2017 is the time to die.

or maybe none of it will.

maybe it's time to quit.

just look at facebook posts, or twitter (even though i don't do that or any other social media.)
watch commercials.
watch people's lips turn gray in your car while making gurgling sounds as your driving while trying to give sternum rubs, and contemplate calling 911 before they come too after five minutes.
work a pizza delivery job 60 hrs a week.
realize you are alone most of the time, hate most people, but still want some human contact.
the few people you care about have their own lives, are busy, and don't owe you anything.
sit at dunkin til 5 am and observe. people falling asleep and getting kicked out. or getting into arguments and getting kicked out. or just absorbed in their smart phones battling over the sigle two outlets then leaving.
then go sleep in a hotel parking lot for the next six hours.
never being productive, or have ever created something that mattered.
it's all bullshit.

maybe it's time to quit.

when something is bad most people just state the obvious, and repeat that what is bad is bad. no one ever offers solutions. and the smart ones that do, their solutions will torn apart by some bullshit that really doesn't make sense so they fall on deaf ears, and nothing is done. open mindedness is dead. it's all about confirmation bias.

so hard to cope anymore. so hard to create.

maybe it's time to quit.

because the two questions i ask myself everyday that i find harder and harder to answer are: what's th point? and why does it matter?

role model

i've always aspired to be burroughs' wife.

dancing in a bathroom after successfully shooting up, jacking off thinking about killing yourself, and realizing you're transgender while giving blood at age 43

listen to more madonna.

complete life.

and scribble in the blanks.

because life is a mystery,

and i hear you call my name.

take me there.

in dirty clothes.

to strip clubs that smell awful

where i can fall asleep

and drink cherry cola.

i'll be alright awhile

because

it's like a prayer.

"i swear on my..."

your father's ashes really don't mean shit.

you always have told the truth
even though
you're the
biggest
fucking
liar.

1/5/17

You are at a family function: it's Christmas Eve dinner at your parents's house, the place where you grew up, but you're not allowed to say the night. So when the house is distracted as it is being filled with family, cookies, and presents, you take the screen out of your old bedroom window, hide it in the closet under some blankets, and prop it open so you can climb through later in the night unnoticed. Just like a year and a half ago when you snuck in, stole mom's gold necklace, sold it for money, and shot that into your veins. She always told you each piece of jewelry held a memory, and you murdered that one.

It still bothers you.

You are a murderer.

You understand why, but you just can't sleep in your car tonight.

Not tonight.

You think about yesterday and tomorrow, instead of savoring today, as you say hi and make small talk with your cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandmother, before you dart outside, snagging a bottle of bourbon and a couple cans of beer. They slosh around in the pockets of your coat as you walk through the backyard to the patio by the swimming pool.

You don't drink.

You try to forget.

It isn't working.

Your depression is amplified along with the loss of your motor skills as your stomach fills and mind drowns.

You tumble inside trying to avoid humanity because you feel so alone around the people you love, but your house is full so trying to camouflage yourself is impossible.

The room is spinning.

You vomit some Manhattan clam chowder onto the living room wall, but are able to keep the rest in your mouth before swallowing it back down your throat. Then you fall into another wall. Unable to stand, your family can't ignore you any longer, as the tears start to stream down your face.

Your cousin's kids: scared.

Your cousins: disgusted.

Your aunt, who has taken care of you like a second mother sits in her wheelchair: betrayed.

Your sister and her husband: embarrassed.

Your grandmother: heartbroken.

Your father: beyond pissed.

And your mother.

Your mother.

She rushes over with a glass of water, and a plan to gather you up into a bed. She hands you the glass and tries to pick you up, but she doesn't have the strength after all the years you put her through. You start to really cry like you used to when your were an infant as you're both stuck to the floor on your knees in the center of the room. You drop the glass and the water pools on the hardwood floor then soaks into each of your pants.

Wake up.

It is 4:30 am.

You are in a Dunkin Donuts in South Philly in front of your laptop with an empty brown paper bag and a flat half dunk can of diet vanilla cola on the table with a film of powdered sugar smeared into your black work pants. Under your hood the tears are still streaming down your face, as the Indian lady, who you trade pizza for doughnuts with, laughs and takes an order for a poppy seed bagel with cream cheese and a caramel coffee from a man in a teal tie and navy suit with white piping who is holding a brown leather satchel bag.

It was all a dream, but, for some reason, you can't stop crying,