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.

Quantity Is More Important Than Quality

Reality, in the metaphorical sense, in the sense that reality is everything undesirable about your otherwise good life, is back today like an old dying Aunt with no friends who just wants a few quarters for the slots. The last wave of inspiration has subsided, tonight I go back to work, the smell of coffee is negated by the smell of a full trashcan, the inbox is full of emails with bold underlined capitalized bullshit, and the guy who cut my hair last night somehow fucked it up. From now on I’m just getting that shit shaved. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking asking for some kind of ridiculous shit like short on the sides and messy on top. Yeah it’s a fucking mess now. Good fucking job.

I don’t think there’s really anything worth talking about now, especially since I can’t seem to even word the boring shit to be funny any more, so I might as well keep typing. At least I can get in a thousand words before getting bogged down in the mire. I’ll just resort to typing long cliches. I’m listening to an album of classical music called Mood Booster. I thought it would be a good idea. I started listening to The National at first and then I realized I was just going to type the lyrics over and over again if I didn’t stop.

Woo fuck, this is going to be tough shit. I do not feel in the least like writing. Ok, well, shit we’re a quarter of the way there now. Sometimes you just got to push on through, like Bob Marley said.

I been reading a lot about American History so I could write a book about a guy in America sometime. Maybe I was wrong to do that. I don’t think so, I’m just feeling like I was wrong about everything. It’s funny how much I don’t know about American history. I don’t know much of anything about American history, and it’s not that much history to even learn.

I don’t mind working, I guess, I mean I hate it, but it pays and that’s cool. I think I’ve worked everyone’s expectations down that I’m coming home for Thanksgiving or for any reason really. I love my family and I have one of the most loving families…or at least verbally loving families, I think maybe their actions say otherwise. My family is all about drama and shit and talking behind each other’s backs and putting on a good face and also full of expectations. No one expects you to do well in a career, they just want you to do well in your spiritual life, AKA go to church, pray, and get raptured in the next few days. And then they also want you to do Amway. Then you’d be good.

Shit, I just wish we could all sit around and chill when we see each other. But you can’t relax because they need you to be someone you’re not. Ah but that’s fine, because most people do. Nobody wants to talk about death all the time. Unless there’s a heaven afterwards, in which case my family would be happy to talk about it. But I guess the fact that they are my family makes me expect them to love me unconditionally. So I guess we all have our expectations.

I just want to move to Siberia and they can all stay here. It sucks because I want to see them but at the same time I never want to see them again. My grandmother is close to the end of her life and she never expected anybody to do anything but their “lessons”, which is what she called homework. She doesn’t think you’re a bad person as long as you’re not a bad person, whereas most of my family thinks you’re a bad person if you’re not Jesus Christ, and not just the real Jesus Christ but the rich one who hates gays and abortions.

Anyway, only three hundred words to go now. Ah, fuck, this sucks shit I feel like I’m cleaning a stubborn bathroom. How can I add something to your life today? I don’t know. What to I want to make you feel? Who are you? What emotion do I want to communicate? Boredom… I heard this song by The Doors on Other Voices. The guy was like, “I’m nervous I’m bored I’m stoned I’m ugly something something.” That was a good song. I bet he didn’t know what the hell to write about at that point.

Damn if I could just cut down some god damn trees around here. Even cleaning something doesn’t feel as productive as the idea of cutting down trees does. Like I could clean the apartment more and that does make me feel better about my life but that shit is just temporary. You clean something and then the next day you wake up and that shit is not clean any more, and then you start to believe that every day is a new day and you are just as wretched as you were the one before. You never make any progress. Like Chuck Klosterman said, every night things come together and I understand the world, and then morning comes and I don’t understand shit, and that’s why I hate mornings.

I like mornings, pretty much, sometimes, if I’m feeling good…alright so I liked one morning one time it was pretty good. Or the mornings of my childhood or the ones when I was in France the first time, but those are in my memory and probably didn’t happen at all like I remember and I probably hated them at the time. I guess the only thing to do is to trick yourself into thinking you were having a good time yesterday.

Well, there you go. Sorry about that, I guess, unless you liked it. I enjoyed it minimally. But I will try to remember that it was fun.

What the Hell I’m Bored

I’m lying in bed with the computer on my penis and I think this shit is killing my chances of reproducing. That’s fine with me but I don’t want to go through the headache of hearing wife crying quietly in the middle of the night because she’ll never be a mother. And that only after boring and expensive treatments at the fertility clinic and strategically timed, pleasureless sex. Woo shit maybe I should move this bitch. Ah fuck it, I’ll hope for the best. Maybe I’ll be dead by then anyway.

You ever heard that Flash and the Pan Song, Waiting for a Train? That song is hot. I heard it when I watched Rock N Rolla back when I thought Guy Ritchie was the King of Everything. Hell yeah I love those movies. But I watched Rock N Rolla like ten times in a row and then I was like shit I’m tired of this. Anyway the song is in there. I thought it was Bob Dylan at first.

Well, damn, if you got this far now we’re both bored. Shit I am bored after all. I’m sleepy as a bitch now. Last night I didn’t get to go to sleep when wife got home. She felt like staying up drinking and of course I couldn’t refused. Made pasta and even watched TV. Then this morning I went to work.

Work is great. My new place is easy, pretty much stress free. And I’m going to have normal amounts of time off, which I’ve not had for a year as I spent the first part of this year working two jobs as often as possible in order to pay for my two months abroad.

So with all this time off, well, there are things I’m supposed to be doing. New book editing project for one thing and helping old people use the internet and things like that. Shit I should be doing those things now. I just keep putting them off, probably because they are boring. But instead of saying no to working on them I promise to work on them. And instead of just trading standard boredom for the kind of boredom I would be experiencing while working on those projects, the kind of boredom that would clear my conscience, I say fuck it, and just stay bored and don’t do anything. So then I’m bored and guilty.

God damn this shit is boring.

Woo damn I could fall asleep at any second here. Any second could just pass right the hell out. Wife is working on her essay. Then we are going out to eat noodles or Thai food or Mexican, but we’ll never decide which without a battery of tests, AKA reading stupid reviews on Yelp. It’s a great way to convince yourself not to go somewhere.

That shit will be boring, too. Fuck everywhere you look it’s boredom cowering in the corners, boredom folding your laundry, boredom sitting on the floor in front of your refrigerator tracing lines in a pile of broken glass.

Even drinking is boring. Talking is boring, writing is boring, breathing also boring…walking even more boring.

I’m actually in a good-ish mood but I have to piss but I don’t want to get up. We had to push the bed against the wall on my side to create more room in the bedroom. For what I don’t know because we still haven’t got any furniture. I think I can feel the radiation dripping inside of my scrotum. Boredom paralysis. Fear. Boredom. Nothing. Keeping your neck up with your core muscles. Going to the gym is boring. Don’t even go any more. We moved away and I didn’t know I had signed a year long agreement to pay the stupid fee. Of course I did, why wouldn’t I. Bills are boring.

I actually kind of like bills and numbers. Shit the music went out. Three times as boring as before. Music is the only reason to live anyway.

Nah, fuck, the only reason to live is to hang out with people and talk about how bored you were the other day. While listening to music and drinking, preferably. Driving is fun, too, the right kind of driving of course. Playing sports is generally fun. Watching TV, not boring. Sleeping. Fuck sleeping. Last night I had a dream I was sort of homeless. This guy offered to let me stay in his house and I was like dude leave me alone I’m only sort of homeless. And I was walking around the mall and I left my bookbag somewhere and they locked it in there with those garage door style gates they have.

Hoo damn I am going to fall asleep now for sure. It’s only 7. We still have to eat. Fuck it, no good way to end this post. Still bored.

Free Morning

What does it mean when you have a free morning? Well for me it means that I don’t go to work until night time. Around two PM or so. I think I don’t write before then because I feel like I should do something productive, and that doesn’t feel productive, and so then I usually give up on doing something productive and don’t write either…I usually clean something and then watch porn jerk off and watch a movie. So in the end I didn’t do anything productive anyway. Nothing to distinguish this day from the myriad days before it. Usually these kinds of days I only feel good when I’m eating. I don’t feel good then either.

“The universal demand for happiness and the widespread unhappiness in our society (and they are but two sides of the same coin) are among the most persuasive signs that we have begun to live in a labor society which lacks enough laboring to keep it contented. For only the animal labors, and neither the craftsman nor the man of action, has ever demanded to be ‘happy’ or thought that mortal man could be happy.”

Hannah Arendt said that. She was apparently a German philosopher or politician or both. I don’t know, shit I just saw the quote somewhere and it made sense to me at the time.

DH Lawrence said, “Work is the best, and a certain numbness, a merciful numbness.” I think that’s quoted right. Some other French guy said something about work being the only way to distract yourself from the fact that you are going to die, or you are dying, or something like that.

Yeah shit I feel that shit like a motherfucker. God damn. If I’m not at work I’m wondering what the fuck I am doing. And I don’t sit around wanting to go to work either. I feel like Milo in The Phantom Tollbooth. When I’m at school I want to be at home and when I’m at home I want to be at school.

Hoo shit. I think I’ll change this theme. I think it’s a wedding theme right now.

The funny thing about life is that last week I slept until twelve every day so to be up right now well shit I’m already at it. Fuck it. I think I just need some chemicals, and nothing crazy either, just a lot of caffeine or a lot of alcohol and I’m all good, wait for death in a peaceable way.

Damn but it’s cold up in this mother fucker and yesterday well…it’s not so much cold but my fingers are cold and I don’t know how to cure that and it’s the most annoying thing.

But I was thinking we are so removed from inconvenience in our modern world. Cold outside? Fuck it, come inside. We all got houses. Hungry? Fuck it, eat. Cut yourself shaving? Son of a bitch. If you were shivering in the cold trying to hunt a wallaby and that shit came after you in a horde of em like they were going to wash over you like a flood when the levee broke well you wouldn’t be shaving anyway.

Fuck it.

Rum and the Philippines

This picture shows some graffiti in Brooklyn, New York

I like this wall

Shit. Maybe this has nothing to do with rum or the Philippines. But anyway fuck it. I’m going all out on this one and calling up Rumpelstiltskin and the gang. That’s what I told myself an hour ago, but I’m still here, just me, drinking this beer and scratching my eye lids.

About four hours ago I had a redeye, or a shot-in-the-dark, or a brewski, a coffee with espresso in it however you’d like to say it. Won’t be able to sleep for a while and that’s how I like it. I’ve listened to the song Anyone’s Ghost by The National 9 times in a row since I sat down a minute ago. Or an hour ago. No an hour ago I danced around the kitchen and did the dishes. Fuck it.

Yeah so I was reading about rum and the Philippines. This one rum called Don Papa named after a hero of the Philippines. Someone who apparently helped liberate the island of Negros from Spanish rule. Now is it Negros the island…or is there an island called Negros Occidental…or is that a town? I don’t know. Shit I could find out but I’ll save it for later. Something I don’t know.

God damn I am in shape. How did I get this way? I don’t know. For dinner I ate a pound and a half of elbow macaroni. Did I say dinner because I meant I ate that around dinner time. Then later I ate leftover Chinese food, enough that it could be considered dinner, too. Fuck it.

Shit, Rumpelstiltskin is not spelled Rumplestiltskin. Rumple is a word, though. My brain feels rumply right now. Hoo shit it looks like Rumply is a word, too.

Fuck it.

Anyway I’m thinking about going to the Philippines. And they drink a lot of rum there. Apparently, Tom Brown and I have read the same book. He’s sticking loggerheads into rum and sugar concoctions and calling it flip, and well he should since I have just read a book that talked about doing just that and calling it flip back in the days when the states were just colonies. That book was …And a Bottle of Rum. Which apparently was one of the lines of the old school version of a Katy Perry song.

But shit, what’s the point? To any of it or all of it. Fuck it, I don’t know. I really don’t. The whole thing smells funny in a metaphorical way. I wish I knew what a metaphor really was, but it’s hard to pin those fuckers down.

I think I’ll go around and comment on some people’s blog posts.

Fuck it.