The Old Days Were Terrible Days

Today it’s going to be hot in New York. It’s going to be almost 90 degrees Farenheit. Underneath my balcony right now, kids are walking. They’re holding long cables connected to adults. They just stopped when someone said, “About face!” Then they all turned around like little soldiers. Now they are all walking back under the balcony, back to the school or daycare or whatever.

I bought some patio furniture yesterday. Now I set up my iPad on my new seven dollar plastic made in America stool and I’ve got my bluetooth keyboard on my lap and I’ve got my coffee and Morgan is asleep inside and it’s just me out here. My wife, we’ll call her Molly from now on, is at work. She had to go early because she’s the boss this month. It’s turning her into a little neutron star of stress. I work today at 3. It’s 10 AM now. I don’t have shit to do. I have a lot of things to do, but since I know I won’t do them, I’ll just pretend I don’t have shit to do.

To be honest I’m scared to be honest. Some days it seems very simple. Some days it seems unnecessary. And on days like today it seems difficult and possibly not worth it. It’s hard for me to even be honest with you any more, now that you know me so well. I think about what you’ll think of me now. I think about what I’ll think of me when I’m you, sometime in the future, re-reading old bullshit.

I’ve got a lot I want to talk about, but I’d like it to seem well-written. Self-censorship is good when you’re writing for an audience. Only an egomaniac would go on about whatever he wanted to for three thousand words and then hit publish. Well, if I’m a fucking egomaniac, I’d better just shut the fuck up about it. I don’t even know if egomaniac is a word. I usually prefer the term narcissist. I don’t really know how the two are different, but narcissist sounds more classy.

I know what I could do, to make this easier for you and pretty much, though not exactly, the same for me. I could break this up into pieces and schedule them to be posted in the future. Since I feel like writing an epic rant about whatever the fuck, I might as well set myself up for the next few days and then I won’t have to actually write things on days that I don’t want to write things. Man I am good at doing exactly what I want.

Watch Out for Pranks Today, Everyone Will Think Less of You If You Don’t See One Coming.

Some cars and a traffic light.

I’ll never let my kids work in restaurants

even though the maitre d’ said everyone should be required to work in restaurant or at least retail so they know how to act when they go out in the real world

fuck that better for my kids to carry on blithely without ever considering the emotional turmoil they’re putting people through

because they’ll have enough of their own without dealing with the possible pain of others

the kids will probably have brain damage or debilitating diseases in which case they’ll be damn lucky to work anywhere

and even if they were healthy they’d just rebel and go work in restaurants so I’ll just have to burn their restaurant down.

Some cars and a traffic light.

Sometimes I lie on the street.


At the very least, the Marijuana could not be blamed

The Manhattan Bridge and a discolored sky
The Manhattan Bridge and a discolored sky

This bridge goes to Manhattan

Yesterday I walked to work. I crossed the East River on the Manhattan Bridge. There was some funny graffiti, like a bear riding a bicycle and stuff like that. I like this picture because it feels like we’re imprisoned, kept away from the sun by our own creations.

I am so very sleepy, and so I have nothing else to say. Can someone please send me some time? I need so much more of it. I have all these great ideas.

Last night I smoked too much weed (which is easy for me to do) and ended up just standing at a rock concert knowing that the performers were doing a good job, but unable to feel any joy about that.

I thought for a second there that weed would be a better drug than alcohol. There are reasons to switch, but it’s going to take some commitment, apparently. It’s not just going to jump up and be fun all on it’s own.

So I will have to put that on the todo list like everything else and it will have to wait. Years, maybe. Ok, my eyes are closing and I cannot stop them.

When the Thing You Worried About Disappears, You Just Worry About Something Else

The promises have been forgotten, and once again we’re free to do whatever we want. And what we want to do, most of all, is find something equally innocuous about which to worry. 

How inconvenient. How callous are those who forgive one sin and leave us to revisit the list in order to choose another.

Sorry, I’ve been watching the BBC again. Sherlock. That’s what all the Benedict Cumberbatch quotes are about. And the weird language here. 

It’s just that midnight is in seven minutes, and I hadn’t said anything yet. Not a lot of time so far to write.

Pop down to the pub for me, will you? Cheerio, quite right, cup of tea then mate. Proper work, boys, thank you ever so.

I Don’t Know What to Say

Lately I am at a loss as to what to write on this blog. I have been writing at least a thousand words a day since I started that story, what is it, seventeen days ago? Today I wrote four thousand words of fiction in four hours. I’m up to just under twenty thousand words on the story. And I’m nearly finished with the badger story I was talking about before. But I haven’t been writing much diary stuff. Maybe it’s good. I don’t know, shit I really don’t know what to write on here because I want to write something meaningful or entertaining and I can’t think of how to do either. I started to write like four other times a post on this blog about nothing and then I just deleted it because who wants to just write drivel but then it’s been a week and nothing has been posted so…this shit is just going to dry up then? What? Then I thought I’ll start a blog that actually has a point but I couldn’t think of anything like that at all. Maybe it will all come back to me eventually. Or not. I want pie.

Fucking Shit, Et Cetera

It’s 2015, bitches, and I’m listening to Claude mother fucking Debussy, alright? Ok? What you know about that shit? Nothing.

Hey man sometimes I wonder if I’m still going to be talking like this when I’m forty. I think it will be worse to talk like this when I’m forty than to talk like this when I’m eighty. Maybe not.

I’ll be all like, “Hey, it’s my grand daughter! What’s up bitch! How’s tricks? Yeah fuck your first grade classmates, bunch of dick suckin ingrates, yo. Shit.”

Fuck em.

But hey, fuck it, it’s only 2015, got time to figure out a different way of expressing myself. Besides there will probably be no need for anybody to calm down by the time I’m eighty. Be in some dire straights by that point. All language will consist of by then is:

“Ah fuck!”

“Holy fuck did you see that shit!”

“What shit? This shit or that shit? I seen some fucked up shit all over the place!”

“Ah fuck all this shit is fucked!”

“Is all of it fucked? Fuck it is! Man that’s some old fucked up shit!”

“Whoa! Fuck!”


Yeah the future’s probably going to be a bitch.

Yo I Am Apparently Angry About Something

Hey ya’ll. I been busy you know I don’t got the kind of time these days because I went down to the old homestead, them southern states. I went down there for my dad’s birthday. And because I didn’t go down there for thanksgiving. And I didn’t sleep really on the nights that I went there and then came back. My dad took me to the train station in his work truck and he goes to work at 2:30 in the morning and I didn’t go to sleep until like 1:30 so I am trying to recover from that shit.

Yeah and he’s not supposed to have anyone in the truck so I had to crouch down in the feet compartment for half the time. I visited my friend in DC and he said man I never thought when I was thirty I would be awkward internet dating and hearing my friend talk about cowering in the feet compartment of his dad’s truck.

Yeah I visited him in DC since I got there at like six AM and he works at a coffee shop. My bus wasn’t until 9. I got on that bitch and went to sleep, but it was not good sleep of course.

And so I been trying to catch up ever since and been falling over myself sleep drunk. I can’t even do that shit anymore, skip sleep and all of that dumb shit. I been missing days writing, but I’m just going with it. And to be honest, fuck I’m happier that way. Just fuck writing let me drag my ass to work every day and slam down a shit ton of caffeine and fucking go man. Fuck it. Sling some hash and smile and suck a dick or two and get out late at night and drift in the rain like a god damned rally car. Fuck it, just going to be back here in the morning. Think I’ll leave my coat.

But yeah I mean one good thing I’m doing is advancing in my war against Les Miserables. I started reading it in August and it has been a fucking slog, let me tell you. I mean, there are lines, whole pages, whole chapters where the insight is intense and the language is awe inspiring.

But half of that shit is him translating a map of Paris into words and I’m like damn Vic let’s get back to that part with the whorechild and the convict. At least bring little Gavroche back, shit.

Yeah but I’m about seventy percent through that shit so my new goal is finish that shit before the end of the year. Remember my old goal? Yeah fuck that goal, shit. I’ll be lucky to finish the original goal.

You know how people are like, hey man, why don’t you give yourself permission to stop in the middle of books, you know? You’ve only got one life, man, why read something that doesn’t interest you? Because someone told you to read it? That’s lame, bro. Go ahead and give that shit up, and go find something that interests you more, because the world is full of options so why would you choose the boring one?

Hey well guess what fuck that shit, dude, you know why? Because fuck man, the world is a fucking ghetto that’s why. You know what man, fuck you. With your bullshit about that, give yourself permission shit. You know, I didn’t come in this bitch looking for permission, withholding permission, a detriment to my own happiness.

Mother fucker I don’t know…just where these bitches got off the bus and started giving other people permission to do shit. God damn it, the same sacks of shit that will take permission from these fucks are the ones that should’ve been given permission to jump from the top of Angel Falls and hum an old Albert Collins lick to themselves all the way down.

But yeah man, hey, fuck it. What do I know? If people giving you permission to be yourself, or to watch bad movies, or read bad books, or not educate yourself, or masturbate all day, or whatever the fuck it is that you can’t do yourself without feeling guilty about it, if people allowing you to do that makes you feel better, well then you’re fucking lying. You’re a piece of shit like everybody the fuck else, and you have permission to suck a dick.

Hey, look man, I don’t know, Victor Hugo probably likes you. And after all, you are made of star stuff. So…you’re pretty critical to the process around here. All I’m trying to tell you man is that just because some whore hound gives you permission to suck your own dick in Times Square, well that doesn’t mean that you are A #1 Awesome mother fucker because…you aren’t. Deal with it like a fucking human being, and read Les Miserables once in a while. You FUCK.

Right? Yeah. Well anyway. Man. Shit, I’m going to jerk off now and go to sleep to The Vampire Diaries.

Daily Post: By Hand

What was the best gift I ever got made by hand? One time my sister gave me this box of stuff that would make me look like Martha Stewart, including a name tag that said Martha Stewart on it. At the time, I think it was 1998, I was making a lot of Martha Stewart jokes. I don’t remember any of them now.

I get a lot of gifts by hand because everyone I know is broke. I’m about to make everyone on my list a gift by hand. I’m about to start but I probably won’t…so I’m just avoiding everyone for Christmas this year. Like last year. Screw consumerism anyway. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make them feel guilty for propping up an artificial capitalist regime by buying me gifts from Crate and Barrel. That’ll do it.

Daily Post