Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin.
1) Pirates and monkeys are the best comedic tools available to a writer.
2) The rules of grammar, correct spelling, and punctuation are our best friends. Let's occasionally abuse them.
3) Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. Every character a birth and death.
4) Know your writing as well as yourself. In other words, work on yourself.
5) Every character is as real as the author.
6) When in doubt: laugh.
7) When inspired: create.
8) When your mind draws a blank, don’t try to remember.
9) _____
10) Subtleties are more interesting than extremes.
11) Words create realities, use responsibly.
12) Return to your two-year-old roots and ask ‘why’ about everything.
13) Buy an audio recorder. They remember what was said better than us.
14) Mommy loves you. If not, somebody does, even if you’re not aware.
!5)16 Don’t ever hate or destroy what you have made.
17) Think twice, but don’t think more than twice.
18) Routinely seek out pirates and monkeys.
19) Eat your greens and fruits (meat is ok too, if you like).
20) See the individual spokes. The faster a wheel goes, the less of the spokes you see, the more a wheel appears empty.
21) .
22) Sober or high: listening…anytime can be writing time. Don’t deny the opportunities!
23) Dictionaries exist for a reason.
24) If you write about someone, write lovingly, even if you hate them.
25) Writing does not exist on paper alone.
26) Find time everyday to write. Schedules are good, but who has time to make one?
27) Be succinct, avoid uncertain words...and good luck.
28) Really..sincerely, good luck. If you can read and write, you have the power.
29) I lied. Sometimes are not writing times. Use writing times appropriately.
30) Stop ignoring (refer to #22).
31) Stop adhering to rules/Stop making lists/Stop writing.
32) Stop listening to me.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
b
she said i said,
"i drink and i don't want to change and this is where i am and this is where i'm comfortable."
and she said i said this is how my parents had relationships with alcohol.
and i was saying that this is how things are.
and she was saying something about being concerned.
and i was trying to reconcile a reasonable explanation as to why she shouldn't be worried about how much i drink.
the first time we kissed i was driving her home, drunk from the bar. and i was saying i was alright to drive.
her hand lingering on my thigh between the shifting of gears. we kissed more on the floor and against walls in my house, kittens treading lightly across our bellies. she said she had to go home.
i said i was alright to drive. we both said goodnight across the shifting of gears.
on her 1am east coast phone to my 10pm west coast ear tonight she says,
"this isn't fair, i'm already drunk and you're only starting to drink."
i lamely conjure a laugh and something not-so-witty
because i'm flustered
because i'm already pretty buzzed
because, you know.
i say too much to recall after this
because, you know.
i ramble on and on and on;
i ramble on and on and on
because,
you know.
"i drink and i don't want to change and this is where i am and this is where i'm comfortable."
and she said i said this is how my parents had relationships with alcohol.
and i was saying that this is how things are.
and she was saying something about being concerned.
and i was trying to reconcile a reasonable explanation as to why she shouldn't be worried about how much i drink.
the first time we kissed i was driving her home, drunk from the bar. and i was saying i was alright to drive.
her hand lingering on my thigh between the shifting of gears. we kissed more on the floor and against walls in my house, kittens treading lightly across our bellies. she said she had to go home.
i said i was alright to drive. we both said goodnight across the shifting of gears.
on her 1am east coast phone to my 10pm west coast ear tonight she says,
"this isn't fair, i'm already drunk and you're only starting to drink."
i lamely conjure a laugh and something not-so-witty
because i'm flustered
because i'm already pretty buzzed
because, you know.
i say too much to recall after this
because, you know.
i ramble on and on and on;
i ramble on and on and on
because,
you know.
so...
...i'm currently out of topics that strike me as relevant. hence, i'm going to do what most bloggers do best: blather on about myself. i could talk about current events, how the bush "administration" (administering more than just politics) announced a "drop in homelessnes" and how ridiculous articles that attribute the decline to a name when all that's happening is an exchange of finance and how easy it would be to alleviate ALL homelessness, poverty, starvation. if only we didn't spend all our cash on an elaborate scheme to make a few people wealthy enough to make solomon blush, and oh yes weapons to destroy everyone. thanks. no. that's my answer to politics at this juncture in my life. i'll kill myself on my own terms. one drink and smoke at a time. apathetic towards institutions, but still a compassionate humanist. i yam what i yam. mr. potato head. and on that note...
let's get to know me a little bit, shall we?
my name is narcissus. when i said in my first post "i don't plan on writing for the sake of vanity" yeah that was a lie. of the bold faced kind no less. i apologize for the lie,
but not for my beautiful awesome intelligent drunkard self! ha.
i do things other than drink, believe it or not.
i have a job at a butcher shop! cuttindameat...well, not really. i work the counter and deli. essentially, i just push meat. i also make music with friends, by myself, and obviously i like to write, although this is honestly the first time i've kept a journal and considered sticking with it for some time. it's perverted how we, and by we i mean the blogging community, all love putting our words out there to strangers to send us comments. tell us how to live or what we should be saying and somehow this is something people thrive on? and bloggging is a terrible word that sounds like a curse word: "MOTHER BLOGGER" or "JESUS BLOGGING CHRIST" or "WHERE IN THE BLOG DID YOU EVEN FIND THAT MONKEY?" oh yes. i have yet to mention my love for monkeys. and pirates. literary wet dreams, those two. pirates and monkeys. mmmmmmmm. whoa, that's a little creepy. and i could erase it, but you gotta show respect to the p&m combo, which is a combo i've just invented, consider yourself enlightened. tangents and rants are fun also. anyway, i gotta go handle and push some meat. blog off...
let's get to know me a little bit, shall we?
my name is narcissus. when i said in my first post "i don't plan on writing for the sake of vanity" yeah that was a lie. of the bold faced kind no less. i apologize for the lie,
but not for my beautiful awesome intelligent drunkard self! ha.i do things other than drink, believe it or not.
i have a job at a butcher shop! cuttindameat...well, not really. i work the counter and deli. essentially, i just push meat. i also make music with friends, by myself, and obviously i like to write, although this is honestly the first time i've kept a journal and considered sticking with it for some time. it's perverted how we, and by we i mean the blogging community, all love putting our words out there to strangers to send us comments. tell us how to live or what we should be saying and somehow this is something people thrive on? and bloggging is a terrible word that sounds like a curse word: "MOTHER BLOGGER" or "JESUS BLOGGING CHRIST" or "WHERE IN THE BLOG DID YOU EVEN FIND THAT MONKEY?" oh yes. i have yet to mention my love for monkeys. and pirates. literary wet dreams, those two. pirates and monkeys. mmmmmmmm. whoa, that's a little creepy. and i could erase it, but you gotta show respect to the p&m combo, which is a combo i've just invented, consider yourself enlightened. tangents and rants are fun also. anyway, i gotta go handle and push some meat. blog off...
Sunday, July 27, 2008
spit or swallow
rod says i make a stupid face when i drink beer because i hold the swill in my mouth instead of swallowing it immediately. i will confess it's a weird habit. i've been doing it for a few years. i hold a mouthful of beer like a
i just caught myself doing it.
it's really not my most flattering face, and i'm a little bit embarrassed about the ramifications on my sex life. how many times have i had a mouthful of beer yet to be swallowed when talking to a pretty lady? rod sucks for bringing this to my attention. i mean, thanks, because i've already started to stop doing it recently, but you still suck. i had my drinking figured out until then. a pun my dad makes: "I can hold my liquor." maybe this was an unconscious mechanism for regulating how much alcohol i was intaking, because now that i don't make my hamster beer face as much i've been getting more wasted more often...or maybe i've just been getting more wasted more often. either way, i resolve to stop this maladapted monstrosity of the mandible...mouth.
i just caught myself doing it.
it's really not my most flattering face, and i'm a little bit embarrassed about the ramifications on my sex life. how many times have i had a mouthful of beer yet to be swallowed when talking to a pretty lady? rod sucks for bringing this to my attention. i mean, thanks, because i've already started to stop doing it recently, but you still suck. i had my drinking figured out until then. a pun my dad makes: "I can hold my liquor." maybe this was an unconscious mechanism for regulating how much alcohol i was intaking, because now that i don't make my hamster beer face as much i've been getting more wasted more often...or maybe i've just been getting more wasted more often. either way, i resolve to stop this maladapted monstrosity of the mandible...mouth.
she's my sponsor.
already got my pregame on. maybe too much. showing up at the party and realizing 80% of the crowd is sober and recovering with a deuce-deuce in my hand: priceless. i can't begin to explain how awkward it is to show up with a drunken crowd to a party where everyone is sober. even though molly, the birthday girl, said we could bring drinks, i think we were the only people who did. molly is my sister, almost literally. and when asked about my love for her, i told it striaght: i love you because you are who you want to be, and who you are is beautiful. she is amazing, and so was the blonde across the room checking me out. eyes connect once in a moment, but my testing gaze met with hers more than once. i had to go for it. that sounds terrible. i hate making my movements sound like predatorial grazings. i think i might like this girl. at least from our interactions...which was under five minutes...mmaybe i'm naive.
i ask her how she knew mollie she says, "she's my sponsor."
the thing is, she still wants to talk to me, and i don't know what to think. she is gorgeous, and as my friend put it later on after she left, "what were you doing talking to the hottest chick in the room?" i don't know. like i said, we made eye contact, and i'm so sick of being introverted when i find someone interested in me, especially the "hottest chick in the room." so mollie is your sponsor, and you are, and were, and continue to be the hottest chick in the room. your name is hatley. what would become of me seeking you out? the sober girl courted by a fucking wastoid. probably not. but you blew me a kiss, and even if in response to my own blown advance, i think i could be in (drunken) love. and i'll wake up tomorrow with no memory of your face and only a name and a stained memory to hold onto. but i bet i will call mollie and ask her for your number and she will probably give it to me and i will call you and you will not respond (as it is the game) and i will lamely give up. hatley, you are something i can't attain, and therefore you are beautiful and idolized.
fuck you, i (drunken) love you.
i ask her how she knew mollie she says, "she's my sponsor."
the thing is, she still wants to talk to me, and i don't know what to think. she is gorgeous, and as my friend put it later on after she left, "what were you doing talking to the hottest chick in the room?" i don't know. like i said, we made eye contact, and i'm so sick of being introverted when i find someone interested in me, especially the "hottest chick in the room." so mollie is your sponsor, and you are, and were, and continue to be the hottest chick in the room. your name is hatley. what would become of me seeking you out? the sober girl courted by a fucking wastoid. probably not. but you blew me a kiss, and even if in response to my own blown advance, i think i could be in (drunken) love. and i'll wake up tomorrow with no memory of your face and only a name and a stained memory to hold onto. but i bet i will call mollie and ask her for your number and she will probably give it to me and i will call you and you will not respond (as it is the game) and i will lamely give up. hatley, you are something i can't attain, and therefore you are beautiful and idolized.
fuck you, i (drunken) love you.
Friday, July 25, 2008
ThiS iS HOW T do iT.
it's been quite a day, now finished four minutes and counting(posted 1 hour 20 minutos later) . 25, now 26. friday, then saturday. young, then old. innocent, then corrupt. the main bullet point of this presentation is--time passes. bottles empty. are refilled, or recycled, or broken. or sucked on obsessively for last drops of memory and feeling. where was i going with this?
ah.
indeed.
the passing of things.
i bought a dulcimer today. i lost a window today. a letter was delivered to my doorstep.
ah.
indeed.
the passing of things.
i bought a dulcimer today. i lost a window today. a letter was delivered to my doorstep.
#1
hey paddy,
excuse the stationary
this fuckin' pen don't
seem to work. its sunday
A.m, i'm slowly drinking
down this pint of guinness
it's food and it's breakfast
so how's it goes living on the "best coast"
I think about you all the time. I regard your
decisions in life and you (turn page, or more precisely a receipt from a hardware store)
#2
only get one time around.
make it real compared
to what?
my life seem's to tricle
qown, my d's look like
a G, not to worry, woman
worry, men go to work.
i've been watching
the "British Open" how do
they find these golf covar-
es's, so demanding, and no-one
can make a two foot putt.
the winner may up at #(?) 6
I just want to stay in touch with you.EVEN
#3
if it's only by letter's
i havent got a phone, my
interest is a cell phone, no
more at&t. they shut my SER-
VICE down for the last two
months and they'rebilling
me?
Just remember every
day you open that door,
qou walk the sidewalk you
cross that curb, your puTTinq
your life on the line. look both
WAy's!
I'LL ALWAy'S REMEMbER you foR ThE pERSON you'd ThouqhT ThiS iS HOW T do iT. DAD
hey paddy,
excuse the stationary
this fuckin' pen don't
seem to work. its sunday
A.m, i'm slowly drinking
down this pint of guinness
it's food and it's breakfast
so how's it goes living on the "best coast"
I think about you all the time. I regard your
decisions in life and you (turn page, or more precisely a receipt from a hardware store)
#2
only get one time around.
make it real compared
to what?
my life seem's to tricle
qown, my d's look like
a G, not to worry, woman
worry, men go to work.
i've been watching
the "British Open" how do
they find these golf covar-
es's, so demanding, and no-one
can make a two foot putt.
the winner may up at #(?) 6
I just want to stay in touch with you.EVEN
#3
if it's only by letter's
i havent got a phone, my
interest is a cell phone, no
more at&t. they shut my SER-
VICE down for the last two
months and they'rebilling
me?
Just remember every
day you open that door,
qou walk the sidewalk you
cross that curb, your puTTinq
your life on the line. look both
WAy's!
I'LL ALWAy'S REMEMbER you foR ThE pERSON you'd ThouqhT ThiS iS HOW T do iT. DAD
where was my lucky glow in the dark coke dealer when i needed him?
sometimes drinking whiskey in the morning can be a good thing. for instance, when you walk out of your apartment to find the passenger window of your car smashed into a thousand tiny jagged pieces of "safety glass."
what was taken? a cd player, a knife, and maybe something else that i haven't noticed (and maybe never will).
what the douche nozzle missed?
$30 in change,
a pair of bonoculars worth well over $100,
a 300 CD book,
the radio,
my lucky glow in the coke dealer figurine glued to the dashboard (apparently a patron saint of driving in argentina?).
i don't think the figurine is as lucky to me anymore.
anyway, the asshole also did not get on my nerves...maybe later it bothered me (definitely later it bothered me), but i'd had a few sips of jameson's before leaving the house, and somehow my buzz trumped the reality of the immediate moment. i laughed incredulously. i laughed at myself for having a car in san francisco. i wasn't surprised or angry. the whiskey was a padding, but maybe i'd been gearing up for this moment. either way, it happened, and thank the powers that be for a good buzz to hold my optimism in what sober might've ruined my day. also thanks to my friends for getting me high later when they found out about it.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
gimme your lunch money, or it's curtains kid.
getting mugged doesn't help your nightlife. ALMOST getting mugged is ALMOST as bad...
...so i'm walking off of mission and up cortland ave to meet friends at the bar. it's friday, july 18th., my day off. i've been drinking vodka since 1 pm plus 8 hours. i'm on the phone, not paying attention to 6 kids with black hoods up
all
lined
up
against
the
wall
up
against
the
wall
not talking, not doing things that kids do (or maybe i'm already out of touch at 25) but all grilling me, oblivious to the whole situation still on my cell phone. luckily, my drunk obtuse ass is hanging up, and all of a sudden i have two 14 year old toddlers trying to hem me up.
people, i'm a lover, not a fighter.
i ran into the street, one still hanging onto my sweater.
"HEEYYYO! AAYYY!" i yelled. "HEEYYYO! AAYYY!" it's the new club hit...
...and they ran back into the darkness. and yeah, it's that cliche. i was too drunk. my memory is fucked. maybe they weren't 14. maybe they were a drunken midget circus troop of gypsies running tourist's pockets for gas money. i mean, it is over $4 a gallon.
fuck it.
i don't care who it was.
it's sad that anybody thinks beating or robbing someone is entertaining.
corporation executives screwing shareholders and employees for money, ego driven deviant children ruining a drunk's night in search of the elusive
people, i'm a lover, not a fighter.
i ran into the street, one still hanging onto my sweater.
"HEEYYYO! AAYYY!" i yelled. "HEEYYYO! AAYYY!" it's the new club hit...
...and they ran back into the darkness. and yeah, it's that cliche. i was too drunk. my memory is fucked. maybe they weren't 14. maybe they were a drunken midget circus troop of gypsies running tourist's pockets for gas money. i mean, it is over $4 a gallon.
fuck it.
i don't care who it was.
it's sad that anybody thinks beating or robbing someone is entertaining.
corporation executives screwing shareholders and employees for money, ego driven deviant children ruining a drunk's night in search of the elusive
we're all exerting power over one another in every instance.
nietzsche would agree.
then he might try to smack me in the face...
why not?
it's no easy chore staying alert to freaks and hipsters and thugs running amok in this city. up until recently, i've been serendipitously sheltered from things like car theft and stupid kids with nothing better to do. trapped in this complifuckation of a landscape, i can only come to one conclusion. inebriated is the only way i can travel.nietzsche would agree.
then he might try to smack me in the face...
why not?
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
back in the day when i was a teenager...
tonight i'm staying home, no bars, no chicks, yes whiskey. jame-o's to be exact. it used to be protestant whiskey, but i've switched to the distillations of catholics now. i've read that tastebuds die and new ones are grown about every seven years, so maybe it makes sense. maybe i'm feeling my irish roots? i did end the last post with an irish cheer. either way, i didn't always drink whiskey by choice. beer was my gateway liqour. i've been thinking about one time in particular as one of my first memories of drinking, which is an oxyoron.
location: new wilmington, pennsylvania.
age: 14.
alcohol tolerance: zero.
new wilmington is 45 minutes north of pittsburgh. it's a well homogenized blend of white people and white people. my mom used to say the only diversity in the town was whether you were protestant or presbyterian, but a large amish population also inhabits the area. in new wilmington, there is an 11 o'clock curfew. nobody under 18 allowed out after naughty time...which is exactly what became of that time. new wilmington was also a dry town. for anyone trying to get liqour, it was either steal from your parents or drive 20 minutes and find someone to buy it for you. for the clueless 14 year olds, driving was out of the question. so...
the night in question, we met at "the tree." "the tree" was a large field surrounded by mostly trees, laying adjacent to the elementary and middle/high school. a group of us met around midnight planning to drink even though none of us had anything. i was staying with my grandparents for the summer. their house was close to "the tree," only a few fields in between, so my midnight sneaking was easy. it was pretty easy in general, because new wilmington had only one police cruiser. i arrived late, and discussion was already in progress.
"we should raid larry's dad's fridge in their garage. it's never locked. we'll just grab a case or two."
i don't think anyone ever considered whether or not larry's dad would notice. he did. he beat the fuck out of larry. larry wasn't even with us that night.
i didn't go with the group that broke into larry's garage. i stayed at the tree with my best friend at the time, smoking cigarettes and feeling cool breaking curfew. that does not excuse me from anything that happened to larry. i drank the beer when they brought it back. even though this began as a recounting of my first night of drinking, all that happened was some asshole yelling, "shutup and drink your beer, pussy." me puking. me walking not-so-sneakily home. as i said, a drinking memory is an oxymoron. but this is really about larry. we all shitted on larry's life that night. i never admitted sincerely to the suffering i helped create. larry will most likely never read this. does me writing "i'm sorry, larry" do anything? i don't know. sorry, larry. kids are cruel and uncaring, and so are drunken abusive parents. we're all shitheads. sorry for being in the way...
location: new wilmington, pennsylvania.
age: 14.
alcohol tolerance: zero.
new wilmington is 45 minutes north of pittsburgh. it's a well homogenized blend of white people and white people. my mom used to say the only diversity in the town was whether you were protestant or presbyterian, but a large amish population also inhabits the area. in new wilmington, there is an 11 o'clock curfew. nobody under 18 allowed out after naughty time...which is exactly what became of that time. new wilmington was also a dry town. for anyone trying to get liqour, it was either steal from your parents or drive 20 minutes and find someone to buy it for you. for the clueless 14 year olds, driving was out of the question. so...
the night in question, we met at "the tree." "the tree" was a large field surrounded by mostly trees, laying adjacent to the elementary and middle/high school. a group of us met around midnight planning to drink even though none of us had anything. i was staying with my grandparents for the summer. their house was close to "the tree," only a few fields in between, so my midnight sneaking was easy. it was pretty easy in general, because new wilmington had only one police cruiser. i arrived late, and discussion was already in progress.
"we should raid larry's dad's fridge in their garage. it's never locked. we'll just grab a case or two."
i don't think anyone ever considered whether or not larry's dad would notice. he did. he beat the fuck out of larry. larry wasn't even with us that night.
i didn't go with the group that broke into larry's garage. i stayed at the tree with my best friend at the time, smoking cigarettes and feeling cool breaking curfew. that does not excuse me from anything that happened to larry. i drank the beer when they brought it back. even though this began as a recounting of my first night of drinking, all that happened was some asshole yelling, "shutup and drink your beer, pussy." me puking. me walking not-so-sneakily home. as i said, a drinking memory is an oxymoron. but this is really about larry. we all shitted on larry's life that night. i never admitted sincerely to the suffering i helped create. larry will most likely never read this. does me writing "i'm sorry, larry" do anything? i don't know. sorry, larry. kids are cruel and uncaring, and so are drunken abusive parents. we're all shitheads. sorry for being in the way...
Friday, July 18, 2008
i will float until i learn how to swim.
My worst regret of being a lush: my small bladder. Living alone, no problem. Piss thirty times a night, nobody cares, flush every time and laugh hohoho. With roommates I’m waking people up at all hours of the night to piddle. My door squeaks if you don’t open it fast enough. The bathroom door squeals if you don’t touch it. I’d rather not subject someone right across the hall to me spending a penny with the door open, so I squeal that motherfucker shut. Then bliss arrives. Nothing feels more relieving to me than a freshly emptied bladder. It’s not just that organ, I sometimes feel a shudder and twitching of muscles like an orgasm or when the best part of a favorite song does it to your ear hole. Everything expresses freedom of movement, and isn’t that what America is all about? Freedom of movement: to pee where you want! Hmm…off track. Maybe not. A friend impressed me the other night by peeing while walking down a city street. That’s on track. But I digress from the fact of my pint-sized urinary dysfunction symptoms. It’s a medical condition. P-SUDS. It means I pee a lot. For every pint, I take a whiz. Hence the pint-sized. It’s a medical term. It’s not rocket surgery. But I digress from the fact of my P-SUDS. It annoys all the people I live with who hear me shuffling through the creaky and squealing hallways at night, the people at bars who have to pause their gut-spilling life moments so I can go take five minutes feeling awkward standing next to multiple assholes who probably think I’m weird for not being able to pee in public when their awareness of it only enhances my anxiety and THIS IS A PROBLEM PEOPLE! But I digress from my P-SUDS. I drink everywhere I go, and in public parks there isn’t always a restroom. I urinate in public a lot. It’s not a medical condition, but I think doctors should start prescribing medical allowances to those of us with bantam tolerance for libation. Let my pee be free!
…Maybe not.
Remember, I’m a proud (but shy) member of the International Paruresis Association. I pee because I have to, not because I want to. You can yell at me for being an alcoholic, but when nature calls, nobody can deny me. On that note...
…Maybe not.
Remember, I’m a proud (but shy) member of the International Paruresis Association. I pee because I have to, not because I want to. You can yell at me for being an alcoholic, but when nature calls, nobody can deny me. On that note...
Thursday, July 17, 2008
regrets
I hear your voice, but it’s the TV
I
Tremor,
Moan
Bemuse myself
Cry
Desperately, you aren’t this.
I
Scream, shake,
Fuck
You,
Losing
Control,
You’re voice is soothing,
Me
Not
Some type of sanity
Some type of vanity
I
Will call you
But
I
Wont.
This is
My
Death,
Slow
Cursed
Wasted
On a bed with all regrets
Wishing I could give you these words.
I
Tremor,
Moan
Bemuse myself
Cry
Desperately, you aren’t this.
I
Scream, shake,
Fuck
You,
Losing
Control,
You’re voice is soothing,
Me
Not
Some type of sanity
Some type of vanity
I
Will call you
But
I
Wont.
This is
My
Death,
Slow
Cursed
Wasted
On a bed with all regrets
Wishing I could give you these words.
your kiss so sweet, your sweat so sour.
In 1969 I gave up women and alcohol - it was the worst 20 minutes of my life.
it's been said that deep down in our reptilian brain we possess the fight or flight response, a mysterious (or maybe not so much) ability to determine when personal danger is imminent, telling us to stand up and fight, or make like mint jelly and be on the lamb. it seems to me that over the course of thousands of years of inebriation we have also developed a distorted, drunken version of this which can be labeled and the "fight or fuck response." this awareness (or lack thereof) in our brain allows us to discriminate in an instant whether we want to treat another person with no respect or class, or one becomes so enamored with another they regress to that drunken cliche of "I LOVE YOU, MAN! NO, NO, REEEAALLY. You're awesome..." and so on.what i experienced last night was that the removal of the fuck from the fight or fuck options leaves little room for misdirection. when the booty calls disappear, it's either go home or start yelling obscenities at the unfortunate person who's been sitting quietly, perhaps politely, next to your drunken ass all night. poor suckers. they never know it's coming until you open your shitfaced mouth. then they are your crying shoulder, punching bag, and best friend, all at the same time. i hate doing this to friends or strangers, being the buzzkill in a house of buzz. the worst part? i was pissed off about not going home with a girl. mind blowing when one takes an objective perspective on the situation. i'd never met her before, and under the layers of silky drunken veils draped over my eyes, i was not even that attracted to her. i barely remember what we talked about. nothing real. she was from the OC, how would I justify THAT in the morning? nevertheless, when she departed for her bed, saying she had to get up at 7, i was broken, desperate...a sore loser?
it is a game. this makes me feel insincere in the long run (no pun intended, but worth noting), and i suppose any real connections i could make with other humans is slowly deteriorating in this ridiculous display of fakeness; my charm and attention in exchange for your loins. this becomes even more pathetic and misleading to my soul when i'm engaging someone i could give a fuck about but still want to fuck. maybe none of what i'm saying is new to anyone, but it's worth being honest to myself that sometimes i act like a sack of shit and screw with other people's heads for my own pleasure (so many puns intended...not sure about the sack of shit pun). but my mask gets heavy. being fake is depressing. so why do i do it? i know it's only lust. the ambrosia can damper my conscience, but i'm never in denial that my smile and innocent inquisitive eyes are fading when no one is around to tempt such a face.
maybe here and now i can make a tentative promise to myself. stop being such a drunken whore? no, i'd be lying if i said i would stop playing the game. sex is too much fun, and monogamy has yet to present any alluring qualities to me. maybe if I meet the right person i'll think differently...no...i promise to let raging hormones rage elsewhere from a good night of drinking with friends and potential lovers. they say seek and ye shall find. fuck them. that's a bold faced lie. stop searching. (BLANK) is always been in front of you. in other words, if you're always looking for sex, you're going to be fucked, one way or the other. enjoy life for what you've got, especially if a drink is in hand. Sliante!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
sorry for being in your way.
it's wednesday at 1:30pm and i want a drink, so i go to my local corner store for a six pack. at the resgister, the owner and his son are dealing with the best customer in history: the guy who tries to scam an extra dollar by asking for different amounts of change for bills in attempt to confuse the person at the register into giving more money than was present at the beginning. i've had people try this on me when i worked cash registers, but those times were with large amounts, twenties and hundreds. this guy is trying with $2.75.
"I gave you two dollars, then I gave you an extra dollar, and I still got a dollar right here!" he says. holding out his hand, i realize his outfit is at least worth 300 bills.
"No," says the owner, clearly over this exchange already, "you gave me two dollars, and you only have 75 cents in your hand."
"That's because he took my quarter," states the man adamantly, pointing at the owner's seven-year-old son. the kid doesn't seem too concerned, I get the feeling he didn't take the quarter. meanwhile, an old homeless man with a Hemmingway beard and a captain's hat has begun telling me repeatedly that he's sorry for being in my way. i nod and smile acknowledging it's no bother, more interested in the grifter's struggle for a dollar.
"C'mon, man. I wouldn't do this to you," he continues. "I wouldn't steal a penny from you. I've always paid in full for everything I get here. Hey, man, I haven't even gotten high today, I wouldn't try to do that. But you just stole a dollar from me!"
"sorry for being in your way."
"No I didn't. You gave me two dollars, I gave you eight quarters, I didn't steal anything from you."
"sorry."
"No man, maybe not purposely you didn't. But you took my dollar."
"Listen, I don't have time for this," says the owner, motioning for me to come forward. the man at the counter doesn't look at me, stubbornly continuing.
"Hey, man. I just want my 40 of Bud, man. I wouldn't try to steal from you."
and on, and on, and on...i've been wrung up, and am not trying to listen to this silliness anymore. i look at the homeless captain a last time, the only apologetic bastard in this whole encounter, his eyes watery with what i would like to think is hope, love, compassion, but probably he's just an alcoholic with a buzz and a tinge of psychological instability.
walking home, i'm forced to consider whether the same time spent hustling the liqour store owner instead used for panhandling would generate more than the dollar in question, and which of grifting or spanging is more noble? i conclude begging is better than stealing. show some humility. after all, you are a drunkard.
let's all take a note from the homeless captain.
"I gave you two dollars, then I gave you an extra dollar, and I still got a dollar right here!" he says. holding out his hand, i realize his outfit is at least worth 300 bills.
"No," says the owner, clearly over this exchange already, "you gave me two dollars, and you only have 75 cents in your hand."
"That's because he took my quarter," states the man adamantly, pointing at the owner's seven-year-old son. the kid doesn't seem too concerned, I get the feeling he didn't take the quarter. meanwhile, an old homeless man with a Hemmingway beard and a captain's hat has begun telling me repeatedly that he's sorry for being in my way. i nod and smile acknowledging it's no bother, more interested in the grifter's struggle for a dollar.
"C'mon, man. I wouldn't do this to you," he continues. "I wouldn't steal a penny from you. I've always paid in full for everything I get here. Hey, man, I haven't even gotten high today, I wouldn't try to do that. But you just stole a dollar from me!"
"sorry for being in your way."
"No I didn't. You gave me two dollars, I gave you eight quarters, I didn't steal anything from you."
"sorry."
"No man, maybe not purposely you didn't. But you took my dollar."
"Listen, I don't have time for this," says the owner, motioning for me to come forward. the man at the counter doesn't look at me, stubbornly continuing.
"Hey, man. I just want my 40 of Bud, man. I wouldn't try to steal from you."
and on, and on, and on...i've been wrung up, and am not trying to listen to this silliness anymore. i look at the homeless captain a last time, the only apologetic bastard in this whole encounter, his eyes watery with what i would like to think is hope, love, compassion, but probably he's just an alcoholic with a buzz and a tinge of psychological instability.
walking home, i'm forced to consider whether the same time spent hustling the liqour store owner instead used for panhandling would generate more than the dollar in question, and which of grifting or spanging is more noble? i conclude begging is better than stealing. show some humility. after all, you are a drunkard.
let's all take a note from the homeless captain.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
a bottle of whiskey is like a parachute...
...it's only useful when it's open. a friend of mine told me this, the same who suggested the beginning of this blog. i don't know why this seems pertinent, or a good idea. maybe it's terrible for me to rant about alcoholism, especially when i feel no remorse for what i'm doing to myself at this moment. maybe that's a lie. i'm sure many people would tell me i'm in denial. but my father once told me a lie of his own which i prefer.
"If you don't feel bad about it, then it can't hurt you."
we can all agree he wasn't speaking about cirrhosis of the liver, or cancer, kidney stones, memory loss (can't feel bad if you don't remember), or any other health issues that happen when you drink everyday for years on end. i've never been honest with a doctor about how much i drink. i haven't been to a doctor for a real check up in almost a decade. but i'll tell you the truth, reader. if there's beer around in the morning, i'll probably drink it. if it's late night at a party and all the beer's gone, better hold on to yours, because i'll drink any open can or bottle i can get my hands on (sorry to all the friends who i've done this to...not really). i drink when i'm sad, happy, angry, confused, bored, or just apathetic, which maybe is an oxymoron since i obviously care about my alcohol intake.
Should teens drink at home with their parents?
i've drank with my parents since i was around 18. my mom used to buy me beer whenever she went grocery shopping. she still does when i come home for a visit, and i'm always very appreciative. it's an expensive habit, and it's nice when someone wants to buy you a drink. To quote Chuck Palahniuk in Invisible Monsters, "When you go out with a drunk, you'll notice how a drunk fills your glass so he can empty his own. As long as you're drinking, drinking is okay. Two's company. Drinking is fun. If there's a bottle, even if your glass isn't empty, he'll pour a little in your glass before he fills his own." my parents are alcoholics. my mom and stepfather's drink is wine. my father chooses beer. all will drink liqour when the mood strikes them. at sometimes, moods will strike more often than not. i love all these people, and i'm not blaming them in the least, i just want to be clear about where i'm coming as a drinker. i was always taught to respect alcohol and to call a cab or a parent when i couldn't drive home after a party. i can't say i always heed this advice, and i'm not proud of that fact. drunk driving is not condoned here. do what i say, not as i do.
"For most normal folks, drinking means conviviality, companionship and colorful imagination. It means release from care, boredom and worry. It is joyous intimacy with friends and a feeling that life is good. But not so with us in those last days of heavy drinking." ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS, The Big Book
i don't know if i've reached those last days of heavy drinking, but how could i? all those cliches of never seeing your low until you've hit it. i can guarantee that this day is not close to my last day of drinking, and perhaps that rising sun to hit a sober eye will never arrive. i don't know why i'm even writing here. i'm not confessing out of guilt, and i don't expect any good advice to come out of this since i'm not apologizing for anything...yet. besides this introduction, i don't plan on writing for the sake of vanity. maybe i'm hoping i can remember something more, discover what i'm missing the next morning, what i avoid speaking to friends and family about. right now i'm sipping a tall boy, i've got another ready, and i'll probably go out tonight to the bar. if anything interesting happens, i'll let you know.
"If you don't feel bad about it, then it can't hurt you."
we can all agree he wasn't speaking about cirrhosis of the liver, or cancer, kidney stones, memory loss (can't feel bad if you don't remember), or any other health issues that happen when you drink everyday for years on end. i've never been honest with a doctor about how much i drink. i haven't been to a doctor for a real check up in almost a decade. but i'll tell you the truth, reader. if there's beer around in the morning, i'll probably drink it. if it's late night at a party and all the beer's gone, better hold on to yours, because i'll drink any open can or bottle i can get my hands on (sorry to all the friends who i've done this to...not really). i drink when i'm sad, happy, angry, confused, bored, or just apathetic, which maybe is an oxymoron since i obviously care about my alcohol intake.
Should teens drink at home with their parents?
i've drank with my parents since i was around 18. my mom used to buy me beer whenever she went grocery shopping. she still does when i come home for a visit, and i'm always very appreciative. it's an expensive habit, and it's nice when someone wants to buy you a drink. To quote Chuck Palahniuk in Invisible Monsters, "When you go out with a drunk, you'll notice how a drunk fills your glass so he can empty his own. As long as you're drinking, drinking is okay. Two's company. Drinking is fun. If there's a bottle, even if your glass isn't empty, he'll pour a little in your glass before he fills his own." my parents are alcoholics. my mom and stepfather's drink is wine. my father chooses beer. all will drink liqour when the mood strikes them. at sometimes, moods will strike more often than not. i love all these people, and i'm not blaming them in the least, i just want to be clear about where i'm coming as a drinker. i was always taught to respect alcohol and to call a cab or a parent when i couldn't drive home after a party. i can't say i always heed this advice, and i'm not proud of that fact. drunk driving is not condoned here. do what i say, not as i do.
"For most normal folks, drinking means conviviality, companionship and colorful imagination. It means release from care, boredom and worry. It is joyous intimacy with friends and a feeling that life is good. But not so with us in those last days of heavy drinking."
i don't know if i've reached those last days of heavy drinking, but how could i? all those cliches of never seeing your low until you've hit it. i can guarantee that this day is not close to my last day of drinking, and perhaps that rising sun to hit a sober eye will never arrive. i don't know why i'm even writing here. i'm not confessing out of guilt, and i don't expect any good advice to come out of this since i'm not apologizing for anything...yet. besides this introduction, i don't plan on writing for the sake of vanity. maybe i'm hoping i can remember something more, discover what i'm missing the next morning, what i avoid speaking to friends and family about. right now i'm sipping a tall boy, i've got another ready, and i'll probably go out tonight to the bar. if anything interesting happens, i'll let you know.
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