Wednesday, November 26, 2003
My, my. Yesterday's wild hair made it all the way to my higher brain. To try about that job I lost again. And whaddaya know, what do you know, they wanna see me this afternoon! I guess there must be some reason that I decided to take a bath. Praise God. Let me be able to this thing--walking about a cavernous warehouse for several miles a night, selecting orders and processing same--right, for once. I don't know what that means: my experiences with doing things "right" is wee minimal.
I was running the imaginary fingers over this notion--that I've never had much of an aptitude for doing things in a proper manner, with predictable results. I'd do fucked-up shit, and get pretty much the same result--some degree of trouble, and then have to come up with more bullshit--lies, that variety is called--to try to get myself out of the bullshit that would probably have never happened had I not tried to do some wrong but pleasurable thing and get away with it unscathed.
That has been my approach to this time on this planet. I've understood that fact, and even a bit about why I continue on in such ridiculous fashion, but I've never been given a reprieve on a dime. They go on in the 12-step groups about 'taking life in life's terms', a phrase that tends to cause me to grit my ever-waning teeth in response (these folks tend to put their ideas in a tautological way); my rebound thought is something like this: Life sucks. It has alway sucked and that is why I know it always will suck, and I can't unlearn that long lesson, just as I cannot, under ordinary physical conditions, unlearn to read.
If I had a stroke that hit the brain structure that corresponds to 'doing stupid acts because you are spent and sad but see no other way' and bleed all over it to its death, maybe I'd be fixed. That may be the future of psychotherapy--get in there and kill the offending tissue. 'Fairness' is something I'll never get that tissue around. The doling out of gifts and favors. Maybe I should get busy during the short time I have here and write something about masturbation--eating dead flowers and fucking the sun or something.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Oh yeah. this little bitch at the desk wouldn't let me use her phone for two minutes. Like it's gonna affect her BUSiness if I do. I put myself out there to get rejected (hey, it's God's will) and now I don't know shit and have no way to find out shit save look up my asshole.
Ratfuck babycrat officials. I got my stones up to call the place where I was supposed to start work last week--just got a wild hair--and get hold of the guy and he says he's off to get my papers, and that he'll email me with his answer about me re-starting there BEFORE five p.m.. It's five p.m. now. We are in the same damn time zone.
So it's like this, or this, or this: He is still going over the papers.
Checked the situation with the next item up in the food chain, who said, 'No.'
Couldn't bring himself to reject my poor ass.
Has no compunctions about rejecting my poor ass.
Was interrupted by something more pressing--they are very busy out there.
Misread my email address, and the original message came back, and now he thinks I am even more of an asshole.
DAMN. How does this shit always seem to happen to me? If this is coming out from under psychotropics, I do not like it at all. There are needles in my gullet and flies in my head and my nose always seems to be running..
You come to on your feet. You haven't been in bed, though you are sweaty-damp, in houseshoes. All is clangy and bright; dissembodied voices ride the close and tinny air. You are in a small space--white walls, chrome bench, shadow underneath it and a toilet in the back. Once before you thought about drinking the water in order to bring your blood alcohol level down, then you noticed a sink next to it. Could you suspend yourself from it with your brassiere?
You are cold. Must be the damp, as you realise that you have been out in the rain. It is not the night-sweats: maybe those will come later, and maybe not. But now you are cold. You hug yourself coldly, straitjacket-style. You start pacing as you squint to make out the figures in navy outside the glass of your locked door. Guards. You were wearing a heavy leather jacket, you recall. In lieu of human embrace, the jacket would make a fine substitution, a pillow, something to curl up under the bench with as you try to forget how and why you are here. Dimly, there is this thought: Paris Pike will be a long walk home. And, following in an arthropodal fashion, this: you have gotten yourself into more and bigger trouble. And then this one: you--you had ajob, or had been hired on for one, and you knew somewhere just above the higher margin of your black reptile mind that you would do anything, or the obvious thing, to lose it.
Hey! Maybe there is a blog for crazy people! Hey! Maybe there is a place for the mad dogs and lost girls and beatdown motherFUCKAs who know it's a bad idea anymore to howl at the moon in public. In private, then: allowing that neurotica about masturbation to be at the head of the class seems, ethically, to stink. Like tissue dead of a bad encounter with the business end of a curling iron set on high.
Masturbation, infuckingdeed. Not that there's anything wrong with it, per se Some ppl here seem to do it all the time, and that's okay. In fucking okay.
Monday, November 24, 2003
I want to die.
But before I do, I have this suggestion: eliminate the 'Today's Featured Post' thingie. In some, it can generate bad feelings, not necessary toward those writers selected, but toward those few who ignore others with habitual and hard-bitten purpose.
I continue to be the kid who gets picked last for whatever game the other kids have been made by teacher to play. Too slow, too weird, ugly, always too something, and the "too" is never a positive thing.
You can't swear on the featured post, but you can reprocess trite maunderings about masturbation. With the "sun in [my] mouth", yet. That's pretty good. If you're a fifteen year old virgin, I meant to say.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
For what this is worth, I drank myself out of a possible job on Tuesday night, wound up in jail; somehow, I must have communicated that I wanted my parents to come get me, and now i seem to be up the crick a ways. The landlord is, by definition, a money-grubbing prick. He verbally indicated that if I vacated early, that he would chase me down and sue me. He doesn't have my social security number. I think that stuff is supposed to be highly classified anyway.But the way my luck is running, he's got it in his hot sweaty hands already.
Please, just let me land in a cool, steady, clean well-lighted place with a therapist and vial of Antabuse on hand. Felons are doing better than I seem to be able to do in matters of working, going to work, not fucking up, getting better work and debts paid and all that. Used to be, I could never quite get how debt could drive a person to suicide. I know now, it's the sheer weight, the elephant turd upon the head of the little birdy.
I am not a bright birdie. I am the anti-Spock. I do not feel like pretending to threaten anybody today.
Thanks for looking at all that negative space.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
How's this for a fucked-up mode of communication?
E-mailing someone you are not speaking to with information that *seems* meant for someone else, in this case, my mother. Her addy and that of my most recent ex are adjacent to one another in my hotmail directory. I sent "her" something about the apartment she (mother) and I know about, but the way I phrased things was such that the info was something I could have shared with him but didn't. Also the bit about getting kicked out of the Army--an ex-inmate is next to me right now, and I made sure to tell "mom" that I didn't know what she--the woman--was kicked out for, either. Translation: you could have checked on me you fatassed old bald-by-nature fart with all your money and shit, and found out that I was on my own ass, but did not, and therefore I have kissed yours goodbye, and am still in AA, and my neighbors beat the shit out of each other every night, and since I don't have/can't affuckingford a phone, I had no way to call the po-leese. They came anyhow.
That, and I'm willing to wrestle with "her" two most difficult horses this weekend. They need worming. Always good for a workout and an interesting quantity of shite.
Hey Manuel. Thanks for responding to my blatant plea for attention. Even though I am a loopy old cunt.
Lock and LOAD.
If I can pull this off, and there is some divine intervention set aside for me, I might have a job, but do not want to jinx myself by actually saying that I might have a job. Counter-jinx, if you give a whirligig. My math was off today: three ppl read this shit, and none of them reply. Today, one person read it, and s/he still didn't reply. Well, head for the mountains..... Busch beer, dammit. I lost a license, an apartment, a little job that would have paid rent nonetheless, and then my temporary accommodations at the Salvation Army, and have this extratemporeal cloud of shit hanging over my flaking head: can I keep this tiny apartment with the fight-club neighbors without actually having any, like, money? This fat guy picked me up while i was thumbing today and asked me if I wanted to go back to his place to party. Yeah, sure, jinx my damn self some more, why don't I? Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
Anyhow, I don't really get why ppl read these things if they are nto gonna respond to them. If just to say, fuck off and die, you whinging old bat. That's fair enough. I can't read a lot of them b/c my time at this public site is very limited: the native poor (as opposed to the downwardly mobile such as myself) have discovered the joys of computers (or Yahoo personals, if one will). Like I, they lack telephones, and must thus come over here, to crack gum and be generally annoying across the board.
My gingivitis hurts bad. Got something stuck between my broken tooth and its intact, more or less, neighbor. I would love to get stinko right now, but had a fatty dinner. Why does my weight matter? B/c I can control it--I used to be able to control it, that is.
I always got picked last for kickball. Sometimes, I truly think that explains this.
How many died today?
Monday, November 17, 2003
Well, fuck. I tried to post something here yesterday--nope, was the day before--and it didn't go. Shouldn't be that surprised. I am not. But there are certain things wrong today that I had thought I'd figured 'around' yesterday: was out of Seroquel, couldn't sleep, had to ration my trazodone, did, took some melatonin and an extra Klonopin instead, and by the time I was drifting off in my temporary crackerbox (I will be evicted on Friday if I can't come up with a hundred bucks before that, and I am not much of a con, drunk or sober. Hate sex, hate jail more, so prostitution is not the answer to this particular problem.).
Got up later than I'd planned. Getting ready to go out--to really go out--is always difficult for me. I space. I get to thinking I'm 18 again and beautiful. The other night a random acquaintence, female, took me for OLDER than 38. I was floored. Yet another reason not to prostitute myself: I wouldn't have any clients.
Well, I fucked around and fucked around and fucked around some more. I used to have this magical sort of thought: if I spend what I have, more will just fall out of the sky and into my lap and all will be tolerable for a bit. I spent some money I shouldn't 've on coffee and mini-thins (ephedra pills). I thumbed into town to go first to AA--to hint around how bad I need some money, truth be told--and then out to an agency that once turned me down b/c I didn't have a car. That's what the bitch recruiter said, although I think her rejecting me had more to do with my alcohol-related charges. Now, I actually reside pretty close to the place--an Amazon warehouse, and this the commercialest season--and walking to night shift, and actually paying attention to what I am doing once I get there (if I can; I'm pretty well convinced that ADD might be more of a problem for me than dyslimbia--borderline personality disorder--or, rather, that ADD preceded the BPD). I've always had some hardship staying on task, save for the one practicum in which I did methadone clinic intakes. Those tasks were neither tasks nor joys, but fascinating nonetheless. Guess I'm hard to fascinate, too.
The ride that rode me into town is someone I'd met before, thumbing. Good-looking contractor from California. Seemed to want to help me out, offered me a place to stay, talked some about God. Asked me, how hard had I been trying to find work, and I did admit that I hadn't been humping as vigorously--egad.--as I tended to let on. Must be something of a kindling effect with rejection: there have been times when I thought I'd become inured to it, and others at which I thought it was gonna kill me.
I've been kicked in the head so many times that I'm shitting teeth. Perhaps one tooth remains. Perhaps I have not truly adapted to the kicking. Learned helplessness, that's what they've been calling it for decades. Instead of sitting here gibbering, I could, for instance, be on a bus to apply for a job. That I won't know I have for about a week, seeing as the only phone contact I can use is me mom's, and she's 30 minutes away. We communicate by e-mail. That is so much easier for me, b/c that way, I don't have to witness her posturings, gesticulations, and knittings of her well-purled brow. And her voice does this thing: it sort of squawks, and then, having inside her head decided upon one opinion or another, she clamps her gums so hard her lips disappear. I'm projecting anger, yeah; I made myself laugh out loud with that snippet, yeah; it's a sunny day and about to get rainy and I'm low on Prozac and could use some serotonin, yeah, and AA is probably about to start.
So I've done one goodish thing--not reply to my last ex's asinine forward. If he wanted to help my ass, he could install it in his spare bedroom and drive me down to Labor Works every goddamn day. Or give me a hit of the fifty grand or more he's supposed to be pulling down, per his local Yahoo personals ad. I'm feeling venomous. And quite the mathematician: for instance, how come only three ppl read this thing, and if you three do read it instead of just checking to see if I'm still out there, why don't you reply?
Sad about those Blackhawks.
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rant of career screw-up, social retardate and bad references walking, all grown old
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