Holy fucking Christ - is it really 12/31/2016?
How the hell did that happen?
I lost a day. Yesterday I was rendered incommunicado thanks to snow considerations.
Who the hell invented snow anyway? I ever meet that guy I will kill him. Not right away, though - I'll torture him first. Acid in the eyeballs, ice picks in the ears, a severed tongue. Then I'll wait two hours before I finally put a bullet in his head.
Another line I like from "FairyTale of New York" is during the give and take between the guy and the woman.
He says "I could have been someone", she says "So could anyone".
We all do that. I could have been someone. My life would have been better if................ We all look at it from our own perspective but the truth is everybody looks at their life that way.
Delusional. Nobody wants to accept their own reality and rightfully so.
I also did not fully explore another aspect of the song.
"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you; so Happy Christmas, I love you baby, I can see a better time when all our dreams come true."
Everybody knows dreams only come true on LSD.
Truth arrives later on in the song when the man and woman attack each other. "You're a bum, you're a punk, you're an old slut on junk; lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed, you scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last."
Anyway it is December 31. The last day of the 63rd year of my life. I am thinking it over, been doing so all week. As soon as the lights went out on Christmas my stomach got all tied up in knots. Been there all week.
A fucked up retirement. Cancer.
These things got my head swirling.
I am not ready but I can't stop it. Midnight will come, a new year will begin, my 64th year of "life" will start rolling along.
Fucking unbelievable.
Tempting to dedicate 2017 to drinking whiskey in blues bars. Two things that satisfy my soul.
Can't do that, though. That would be like giving up. Then again, if I "try" in 2017 and fail I will have wasted another year, and the supply is dwindling.
I don't know how I'm going to approach the coming year. The tomorrow.
Don't know what I am going to "do" with what remains of my life.
Brain is conflicted. Emotions run strong. Confusion distracts. Disappointment thwarts hope.
Who the fuck knows.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Nope; Changed My Mind
The thought occurred to me that I should get drunk as hell tonight.
Then I could get up tomorrow and begin the day by puking. It would be symbolic of puking out 2016 and clearing the decks for 2017.
But I decided against it.
I have had too many hangovers in my life on my birthday.
Kind of ruins the day.
Then I could get up tomorrow and begin the day by puking. It would be symbolic of puking out 2016 and clearing the decks for 2017.
But I decided against it.
I have had too many hangovers in my life on my birthday.
Kind of ruins the day.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Oh, So That's How It Works
When four days feel like eight - every single fucking time - it is time to cash it in, baby.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
More
Jesus Christ, is it really December 29? 2016?
Holy Christ, what am I to do.
2017 is screaming up into my rear view mirror, about to pass me and become the future. The new reality.
Another fucking year.
I am bone tired of it all. Wasted on trying to make sense of it all; make something out of my life.
Still, the prospect of change is thrilling. So easy to delude yourself that next year will be different. Much harder to take that delusion and make it reality.
I latched on to "Fairy Tale of New York" by The Pogues as a great Christmas song this year. Partly for the harsh expression of reality, partly for the honest expression of delusion we all employ.
"It was Christmas eve, babe, in the drunk tank, an old man said to me won't see another one."
The harshness of getting drunkenly arrested on Christmas Eve, the harsh truth of the old man admitting he will not live to see another Christmas.
I like the reality of that.
"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you."
That line gets to my gut. Delusion. This year's for me and you.
We all do that at this time of year. Gonna be our year, babe. Things will turn around, we're finally gonna get the life we always wanted.
And one more year passes in dullness and disappointment.
Sameness.
I am hunkering down here. My brain is reeling with thought and anticipation. Some dread, a little bit of hope.
Desperation is a good word.
Of course that word applies to me on every January 1.
Thinking about insanity. Might have to get me some of that.
But I gotta get through the next three days first.
I get almost non-functional just before January 1. Feeling the pressure. Mentally shucking and jiving, swaying to and fro, indulging in delusion, hoping for results.
Gotta work today and tomorrow and that will feed my dark side. Get a lot of broken people shopping in the thrift store. You can tell by their faces, by their attitudes, by their comments, by the way they count change to pay for stuff.
Without drastic adjustment, that will be Carol and me before long. Got almost nothing by way of retirement. At some point, if things don't change, the house is the only thing that might save us. Assuming the real estate market cooperates.
Problem is I am not going to be an old man who relies on his kids for support.
Nor do I want them wiping my ass.
These are my thoughts on December 29, 2016.
Three days before I celebrate my 63rd birthday.
Fucking sixty three.
Holy Christ, what am I to do.
2017 is screaming up into my rear view mirror, about to pass me and become the future. The new reality.
Another fucking year.
I am bone tired of it all. Wasted on trying to make sense of it all; make something out of my life.
Still, the prospect of change is thrilling. So easy to delude yourself that next year will be different. Much harder to take that delusion and make it reality.
I latched on to "Fairy Tale of New York" by The Pogues as a great Christmas song this year. Partly for the harsh expression of reality, partly for the honest expression of delusion we all employ.
"It was Christmas eve, babe, in the drunk tank, an old man said to me won't see another one."
The harshness of getting drunkenly arrested on Christmas Eve, the harsh truth of the old man admitting he will not live to see another Christmas.
I like the reality of that.
"Got on a lucky one, came in eighteen to one, I've got a feeling this year's for me and you."
That line gets to my gut. Delusion. This year's for me and you.
We all do that at this time of year. Gonna be our year, babe. Things will turn around, we're finally gonna get the life we always wanted.
And one more year passes in dullness and disappointment.
Sameness.
I am hunkering down here. My brain is reeling with thought and anticipation. Some dread, a little bit of hope.
Desperation is a good word.
Of course that word applies to me on every January 1.
Thinking about insanity. Might have to get me some of that.
But I gotta get through the next three days first.
I get almost non-functional just before January 1. Feeling the pressure. Mentally shucking and jiving, swaying to and fro, indulging in delusion, hoping for results.
Gotta work today and tomorrow and that will feed my dark side. Get a lot of broken people shopping in the thrift store. You can tell by their faces, by their attitudes, by their comments, by the way they count change to pay for stuff.
Without drastic adjustment, that will be Carol and me before long. Got almost nothing by way of retirement. At some point, if things don't change, the house is the only thing that might save us. Assuming the real estate market cooperates.
Problem is I am not going to be an old man who relies on his kids for support.
Nor do I want them wiping my ass.
These are my thoughts on December 29, 2016.
Three days before I celebrate my 63rd birthday.
Fucking sixty three.
Margaret Compton
Margaret Compton was 85 years old and a royal pain in the ass.
Not everybody felt she sucked; in fact many thought she was delightful. Perky, functional, reasonably sane - not bad for an 85 year old broad.
But perceptions differ.
Ralphie fucking hated her.
Margaret worked in the local grocery store in this tiny town. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to keep in touch with "her" people. Wanted to keep active.
Every time Ralphie stopped in for a 12 pack or a bottle of wine or a jug of whiskey, she was there. Seemed like she fucking lived there.
He had no problem with old farts trying to stay alive, after all death was not number one on his wish list. He wanted to get drunk as many times as possible, wanted to get laid at every opportunity, wanted to ring every drop of insanity out of his life for as long as he possibly could.
What he did have a problem with was gossips, although Ralphie's definition of a gossip was pretty narrow.
He wasn't much of a communicator. In fact he hated conversation. People were so fucking boring and most had nothing to say. If you outlawed cliches most people would have no use for their tongues.
So when he got to Margaret's register and she just had to ask how he was doing, how the job was going, was that a new truck he was driving, how was his ex-wife's health, he almost went out of his mind.
Get in, get out. That was Ralphie's philosophy. Get out of work, pick up some booze, go home and drink it.
No distractions, no wasted time, no fucking bullshit.
But she just wouldn't leave him alone.
His impatience was poison as he waited in line each time, waited while Margaret interrogated every fucking person ahead of him. Even people with one goddamn item, people who should have been waited on and gone in one and a half minutes, who instead spent five minutes or more indulging the old broad.
It was Friday night and Margaret was robbing Ralphie of precious chunks of his weekend.
Impatience boiled over into anger.
When he finally got to the register Margaret's ridiculous, Shar-Pei wrinkled faced broke into her annoying hometown smile.
Ralphie answered her questions through clenched teeth, openly antagonistic, head down, tapping his boot on the creaky wooden floor.
The explosion came when she got around to asking about his ex-wife's health.
Slowly, Ralphie raised his head until he was looking Margaret Compton directly in the eyes.
"This is how my ex-wife feels", he said, just before he punched Margaret in the face.
The people behind him in line, shocked into inaction, gasped as she went down like a ton of bricks. Calmly, Ralphie opened up one of his Natty Lights and poured the beer all over Margaret's head.
"Have a nice weekend," he said just before he walked out the door.
Not everybody felt she sucked; in fact many thought she was delightful. Perky, functional, reasonably sane - not bad for an 85 year old broad.
But perceptions differ.
Ralphie fucking hated her.
Margaret worked in the local grocery store in this tiny town. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to keep in touch with "her" people. Wanted to keep active.
Every time Ralphie stopped in for a 12 pack or a bottle of wine or a jug of whiskey, she was there. Seemed like she fucking lived there.
He had no problem with old farts trying to stay alive, after all death was not number one on his wish list. He wanted to get drunk as many times as possible, wanted to get laid at every opportunity, wanted to ring every drop of insanity out of his life for as long as he possibly could.
What he did have a problem with was gossips, although Ralphie's definition of a gossip was pretty narrow.
He wasn't much of a communicator. In fact he hated conversation. People were so fucking boring and most had nothing to say. If you outlawed cliches most people would have no use for their tongues.
So when he got to Margaret's register and she just had to ask how he was doing, how the job was going, was that a new truck he was driving, how was his ex-wife's health, he almost went out of his mind.
Get in, get out. That was Ralphie's philosophy. Get out of work, pick up some booze, go home and drink it.
No distractions, no wasted time, no fucking bullshit.
But she just wouldn't leave him alone.
His impatience was poison as he waited in line each time, waited while Margaret interrogated every fucking person ahead of him. Even people with one goddamn item, people who should have been waited on and gone in one and a half minutes, who instead spent five minutes or more indulging the old broad.
It was Friday night and Margaret was robbing Ralphie of precious chunks of his weekend.
Impatience boiled over into anger.
When he finally got to the register Margaret's ridiculous, Shar-Pei wrinkled faced broke into her annoying hometown smile.
Ralphie answered her questions through clenched teeth, openly antagonistic, head down, tapping his boot on the creaky wooden floor.
The explosion came when she got around to asking about his ex-wife's health.
Slowly, Ralphie raised his head until he was looking Margaret Compton directly in the eyes.
"This is how my ex-wife feels", he said, just before he punched Margaret in the face.
The people behind him in line, shocked into inaction, gasped as she went down like a ton of bricks. Calmly, Ralphie opened up one of his Natty Lights and poured the beer all over Margaret's head.
"Have a nice weekend," he said just before he walked out the door.
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
No Amount of Quiet Introspection
Tears mixed with blood; both flowed freely down his cheeks.
Once again he smashed the heavy glass ashtray against his increasingly fragile skull.
"I have to get these negative thoughts out of my head. That is what everybody tells me; have to get them out of my head."
This voice screeched in his mind.
They were right. They had to be right. Right?
His life was such a fucking joke. A cogent argument against the very concept of being alive.
No amount of quiet introspection had ever provided answers. He was lost, he had always been lost and now, as time was running out, he was desperate.
Pain and punishment. Pain and punishment. Cathartic, baby.
Psychological suffering was not enough. He had become immune to it. It had become a natural state of being.
Vicious, physical pain was the only option left and it made perfect sense.
Pain, blood, physical suffering - these are the things that get your attention. They can transform you, break you down to your essence; open a window into your soul that will reveal a truth too diseased to ignore.
Bam.
This time he slumped to the floor.
As his vision faded he realized that something felt off. Their logic did not sit well with his understanding of reality. His life as he had lived it; his life as he had felt it.
His essence was at odds with their advice; their fucking wisdom. He sensed this more than thought it.
Could they be wrong? These people with their homes and their smiles - were they fucking lying as he had always believed?
Maybe they did not understand him. Maybe only he knew what was right for him.
Weak as he was he managed to raise his arm one more time.
No way, he thought, no fucking way. My life could not be this fucked up if I knew what I was doing.
His intention was only to achieve catharsis. But he found he couldn't stop.
Peace was what he coveted. A peace he had never had.
The ashtray slammed into the side of his skull.
He died.
Once again he smashed the heavy glass ashtray against his increasingly fragile skull.
"I have to get these negative thoughts out of my head. That is what everybody tells me; have to get them out of my head."
This voice screeched in his mind.
They were right. They had to be right. Right?
His life was such a fucking joke. A cogent argument against the very concept of being alive.
No amount of quiet introspection had ever provided answers. He was lost, he had always been lost and now, as time was running out, he was desperate.
Pain and punishment. Pain and punishment. Cathartic, baby.
Psychological suffering was not enough. He had become immune to it. It had become a natural state of being.
Vicious, physical pain was the only option left and it made perfect sense.
Pain, blood, physical suffering - these are the things that get your attention. They can transform you, break you down to your essence; open a window into your soul that will reveal a truth too diseased to ignore.
Bam.
This time he slumped to the floor.
As his vision faded he realized that something felt off. Their logic did not sit well with his understanding of reality. His life as he had lived it; his life as he had felt it.
His essence was at odds with their advice; their fucking wisdom. He sensed this more than thought it.
Could they be wrong? These people with their homes and their smiles - were they fucking lying as he had always believed?
Maybe they did not understand him. Maybe only he knew what was right for him.
Weak as he was he managed to raise his arm one more time.
No way, he thought, no fucking way. My life could not be this fucked up if I knew what I was doing.
His intention was only to achieve catharsis. But he found he couldn't stop.
Peace was what he coveted. A peace he had never had.
The ashtray slammed into the side of his skull.
He died.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)