Give Me An Answer

How can you reconcile bitter disappointment over trivial things with a zest for life and an attitude of gratitude?

You can’t, that’s the whole point.

In that case fuck a zest for life and that other cliche.

Wrong choice, dude.

Shut up, dude.

Well, I’m leaving for now. I’ll come back when you’ve had something to drink.

Wow you found the high ground fast. You’re pathetic. Just because you’re not here doesn’t mean you’re not responsible for what happens.

Then make the right choice, keep me around. Fuck disappointment. Disappointment comes from expectations. Since when have your expectations been a reasonable guide for what happens in your life?

Well, I think you bring up a good point, about expectations, and the Tao Te Ching and all of that. But, you know, we tried doing that shit before and we just ended up here. Broke. We need uppers, we need caffeine, we need to get active. We need to improve, compete, evolve, do, act, go, accomplish. We need money.

Some of that is compatible with a Taoist perspective, right? I mean, as far as we understand taoist philosophy.

There’s always a disclaimer with you. Fuck man, can’t you just say something without…

Alright, focus, dude, because attacking my rhetoric isn’t going to get us anywhere.

Alright first of all, bro, we’re not attacking your rhetoric.

Look, just answer the question.

What question?

Letting go of control doesn’t mean you stop being active.

Sounds like it does to me.

It doesn’t have to, right?

I don’t know, just fucking tell me already, Christ why do i have to agree with everything? Just tell me what the fuck you think, good fucking Christ I’m going to agh fuck. Alright. So what are you saying? We should go read the Tao Te Ching again? That’s what you’re suggesting?

How much coffee did you drink?

Now who’s slowing us down with shit that doesn’t matter?

Huh? Nevermind. Look here’s what I’m saying. You’re sitting in bed. You just made this bed. It’s fucking sweet. There are a hundred things that brought you here, but none of them are good or bad. Some of them may be important or instructional, but they don’t need to effect the way you feel right now. You acted today, accomplished what you needed to accomplish, there is nothing more for you to do today, and there’s no reason to be angry or disappointed. You’ve done all you could, and however anyone or anything acts because of or in spite of those actions isn’t something you control. So let it go. Act again tomorrow.

Alright I guess that makes sense. But what happens if we start letting everything go? Like we did last time? Who’s going to pay our student loan then?

I don’t know man. Don’t fuck it up, I guess. Just do what you’re supposed to do every day. Be better. Spend less. What do you want me to tell you? We’re in debt. A lot of it. But keeping working and we’ll be out of it in twenty or thirty years. Anyway, what’s the point? Why even struggle to get out of debt or whatever? What are you even going to buy? Is it going to make you happy? What’s the point of any of this shit?


Oh, hold on…shit. Now I’m depressed.


Yep. Depressed as fuck. Nothing matters.

God damn you. God damn me and God damn this horrible meaningless universe.

Dude, fuck this. Let’s get that drink.

A Sunday That Happened Today

I had the day off today and so did my wife and we spent it together doing things. Now she is doing her schoolwork and only a minute ago I was at the same desk reading short stories and bits of writing about writing from writers long dead. Now I am sitting on the couch next to the window that needs more insulation.

It was nice weather this morning and we walked in Carroll Gardens which is a rich part of Brooklyn lined with unique and expensive stores. We dropped off frozen compost at the farmer’s market there and bought two heads of red leaf lettuce. It was cold and barren at the farmer’s market and the earth seemed dull and stupid.

We came home and made turkey salad and ate and then Wife felt sleepy and blamed it on the tryptophan. I suggested she might have amyloidosis, because it’s going around the neighborhood.

Last night I stayed up until three reading about a Chicago restaurant’s reservation policy in minute detail. We woke up at ten and I had to decide whether or not I was upset to leave a dream where I was in the middle of making a flight reservation at an airport where they were also gearing up to sell the latest Playstation. It was a lot of drudgery and tedium so I don’t know why I would want to stay in that world, but for a few minutes, I did.

Wife’s parents came upstairs when dropping off her sister and they brought with them enough toilet paper and paper towels to last us until the apocalypse. They carried off a dying plant and shook their heads at our negligence. They were gone so fast we forgot to return to them these bulky water jugs, now empty, that they brought here last time filled with special Japanese water that cures headaches and keeps away mosquitos.

Her parents don’t like to stand still. They had just returned from Atlantic City but they didn’t give us any money so I guess they didn’t win too much. But they brought us dinner in takeout containers.

A penny saved on dinner is a penny earned to spend on something better so now I am waiting until Wife is ready to leave the house and when she is ready then, my friend, we will swagger forth into the night and swipe the debit card linked to our shared account and we will return to our lair with fresh rations of alcohol.

All Night Ain’t Night Enough

For some people, Alice in Chains’ MTV Unplugged Album was the best of all. The best MTV unplugged album and for some people, the best album of all time. I don’t know anybody in the former camp, but I suppose they exist.

I am listening to it in it’s entirety now for the first time.

I am sitting at my home-assembled Ikea table and drinking a homemade Americano cocktail.

That’s right, I am putting links in my post again. This blog is about to get real fucking interactive.

This album is hot. I know you probably wouldn’t think it, but I’m already halfway through. It took me an inordinate amount of time to find a decent site to link to for the Americano recipe.

But that doesn’t matter because I took my watch off and Wife is working all night tonight at the bakery. So I’ve really only got another four and a half hours until she gets off. Damn it.

Well that went to shit fast. First I was like, hell yeah I’ve got all night. And then I realized, shit I don’t really have all night, it’s already one thirty in the god damn morning.

86 Whiskey, Sub Vodka

It is Sunday night. I just finished work and Wife has to stay up and finish her paper. So that means I get to stay up writing, too! Sweet. Plus I got a glass full of ice and vodka. Ran out of whiskey yesterday.

My new blogging goal, oh by the way I’m setting goals now mother fuckers what you know about that, is one hundred views in a day. One hundred views shit kazam blam that’s some crazy shit. I’ll be looking like the pied piper of blogging out here.

Hell yeah man but fuck all the dumb shit, a hundred views in a day by the end of this week and I’m about to hit my two hundredth post on this blog, two years in. A year and ten months anyway. I got big plans for December. I’m about to drop all kinds of dumb ass posts on this blog. I’m going to be a word generating machine.

Nah but fuck it. Earlier today I was feeling dumb as hell, just sitting in bed and staring at the computer. I was thinking to myself, shit, man, some people blog about how to write. I blog about how I don’t write. I write about pretty much the opposite shit of successful bloggers.

I get on here and write about my neurosis and and moroseness like it’s some shit to be proud of. Hell yeah that’s what I do. Fuck it.

Man but anyway, I don’t even know what to talk about these days. I never do. I’m trying to write something so I have something to market. That’s some dumb shit right there. But anyway we’re all going to die soon enough, no use pretending like we’re going somewhere important.

A Good Day

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sparkling or Still.”

My perfect day off would be me sitting around staring at a wall and being happy, so drugs would probably have to be involved. Mostly just alcohol.

I would wake up around 1 PM and eat pancakes and drink a few greyhounds.

Then I’d put a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table and play Assassin’s Creed until I got hungry again.

Then I’d order a pizza with everything on it and mozzarella sticks too and when it arrived I’d use the bathroom since I had to get up anyway.

Then I’d put a six pack of Belgian beer on the table with the pizza and I’d watch a Tarantino movie until I was done eating.

Then I’d play Assassin’s Creed until my eyes bled.

Then I’d lay on the floor, listen to Pink Floyd and drink the rest of the whiskey until I passed out.

I Forgot to Name This Post

It feels strange to type on a laptop keyboard now, I’ve been writing from my iPhone for the past few days. I started blogging from my phone out of necessity, and now I think it’s become almost equal to or greater than blogging from the computer. I think it makes me think more about what I’m going to write, without slowing me down as much as writing with pen and paper.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing lately. I want more people to look at my blog and like my stuff and come back to read, so I don’t want to flood the blog with posts, but then the only thing that seems to raise the number of people who look at the blog is to write more posts. And then I always want to write, but writing in a word processor isn’t enough for me anymore. I want someone to read every god damn thing that comes out of my head.

But I’ve thought it before and I’ll stop thinking it soon and come up with it again in a couple of months: Fuck it, maybe I can get away with publishing every stupid thing I write.

Wife is back to school so that means lots of time at her computer which means lots of unsupervised time for me. I have to get working on my projects for those old guys who want to publish books, but honestly I wish I could give that shit up. I’ve felt very free these past two days, since I told them that I would get back to him in a few days once my friend left.

But I can’t give them up because they may be my key to getting out of waiting tables. If I got two more clients like them I could just stay home and work on their projects. But maybe it would be just as bad as waiting tables.

I started listening to The Self Publishing Podcast today and it was really interesting to hear those guys talk about writing for money. They are very prolific. I feel like I can’t write stories. I feel like if someone were to give me a well thought out story, I could write the scenes, but maybe I couldn’t. Fuck if I know.

Oh that’s another thing, I’ve been making a conscious effort those last few posts to censor my language because I started thinking maybe I could get freshly pressed. It started off motivated by that, and then I found that I could come up with more clear and creative way of expressing myself than cursing. But sometimes that’s just too fucking much to think about.

Hunter Thompson curses a lot in his writing but he doesn’t overdo it, in my opinion. So I think I will try to do that. But then, fuck, I’m always trying to do what other writers would do. I don’t know if I will ever figure it out. But I do know I’m too young and inexperienced to be discouraged about that, even if I’m too old and have seen too much dumb shit to believe anything good about anything.

But yeah, the blog is blowing up! Mostly because I’m engaging with the community like in the early days of last year when I reached 400 views in one month. It’s not much relative to a lot of blogs, but I haven’t been able to get anywhere near that since. I think I posted an average of three times a day that whole month.

Ah I’ve been trying to avoid writing this kind of post and stick to the interesting stuff but I guess I am too excited about writing so much. Writing begets more writing, said someone famous. And then the positive reinforcement that comes when the notifications keep popping up on my phone that someone looked at my blog or commented or liked.

That’s why I was thinking, I forget what I was reading but they were saying if you want to create something new you’ll have to do something you haven’t heard of anyone doing before, which sounds obvious, but it made me think fuck it, if I write enough posts that are interesting to me, maybe I can find enough fans to quit my job and stay home chopping down trees and drinking white lightning and blogging from my phone.

Ha, I’m not really finished writing but I just want to publish this so people can read it while I’m writing the next thing. Fucking ridiculous. I don’t know, maybe I’m a god damn genius.

Absent Minded Somnambulist

I am sitting next to my front door (on the inside of my apartment) on a gray rug that I stole from an absent minded somnambulist. I am sitting here drinking a beer that I don’t particularly like and I am thinking about what I did today. Only I’m not thinking of events because I can’t remember them well enough to make sense of them. Instead, I am thinking about this moment and what does it mean to be a man in Nautilus brand sweat pants two sizes too big with frayed bottoms drinking a beer in the dark at one in the morning while my wife sleeps and my good friend reposes on the love seat with his feet over the side and his breathing slow and shallow and that’s what makes me think he is asleep, too.

The reason I can’t think of the things I did today is that I am not the person who did those things. Maybe half my cells have died and been replaced since then. My mind certainly can’t process the past in a satisfactory way. It skews even the present, but not as viciously as it does the past. The memories I have now are only a representation of the person I’ve become since those memories allegedly occurred.

Anyway, it’s kind of nice here, now that I think about it. The beer is not tasty but it is alcoholic and oftentimes that’s what matters.

(Just now, by the way, I think someone built an entire jungle gym right outside of my door and then dropped it down the stairs. Either that or Charles Bronson is escaping this building’s stairwell using only a tin sledgehammer and a baby’s rattle.)

It’s nice here and besides I have had a nice day. I didn’t expect it to end this way, but that’s okay.

See my friend came to visit me and I had to work. So I was away for eight and a half hours and they were thinking of coming out after I got off. But then I texted them at midnight to say what’s up and got no reply. Then I walk into a dark apartment and so it goes.


I started listening to Rachmaninoff today because I was watching this movie called Grand Piano on the flight home from England the other day and Elijah Wood said something about Rachmaninoff and I thought I’d better go home and listen to that shit sometime. I’ve listened to Rachmaninoff before, don’t get me wrong, ho ho, shit, yes, of course.

Anyway. I’m sitting here listening to Rachmaninoff and trying to think about my life. A life with a blog that does best when I talk about Smurfs. God damn Smurfs always smurfin up my stats. I’m sleepy as hell. I’d go to sleep, but my wife is at work and coming home soon and she is sleepy, too, so…solidarity.

Yes well. I was going to write, and then I drank a glass of bourbon and suddenly it didn’t seem like a good idea. A good idea seemed like sitting in a chair with bright lights on so I wouldn’t fall asleep listening to Rachmaninoff. And then I was going to write on paper and that was good for a minute until I realized I had no god damn desk to write on, and I was using my dresser but only the corner of it because the rest of it was taken up by Rachmaninoff.

I think it’s time to face the fact that I really am bored. That’s probably why I am sleepy and why I can’t wake up. Fucking bored. I never think I’m bored because there’s always something that I want to do, and it’s pretty much always the opposite of what I am doing. Like Milo in Phantom Tollbooth.

Shit. I think the problem is I expect to be happy. Some old Hannah Arendt shit going on around here. That reminds me, one of the biggest referrers to my blog is the search term “Hannah Arendt Porn”. That’s some weird shit around my way. Hoo damn. Who’d want to see Hannah Arendt get smurfed anyway.

Yeah but I am on the verge of recapturing financial stability, but what the hell is it for anyway? I got to fucking do something. I got to aspire to something or some shit. Fuck. I never thought I’d say it but I’d better get some goals and shit. Being happy with what you have…shit just doesn’t work around here. Unless you’re happy to have alcohol, because that works fine. Only problem is you can’t stay drunk all the time and keep your job. Shit I know about that. Oh did I tell you I got fired? Shit, can’t remember. That was last year. That’s why I am only now regaining financial stability. I got fired as a result of being black out drunk at work.

But that shits for another day. Fuck. What the fuck are we going to do around here? Got to cut some of this shit out. Got to accomplish some shit once in a while. Got to go to bed tired. No! Fuck, why do I always make it about going to bed. Got to go to the grave tired I might as well say, shit. All I really do give a fuck about is sleeping I guess. Yeah because that’s what I thought for a long time I was like fuck it, I guess life is all about working hard so you can get good sleep.

What I should do is work when I work and play when I play and sleep when I sleep and hopefully drink the whole time.

Maybe I should believe in God again. I was reading that belief in God or religion in general is probably and evolutionary advantage. Like if not believing in God and shit leads us to destroy ourselves with viruses and atomic bombs or whatever the fuck, if anyone’s left afterwards they will probably band together over some religious superstitious shit and that will help them to build a successful society free of space wasting nihilists like me.

What I’ve Done Since Last Post (Nothing)

Last night there were just two of us on the bar and there were a thousand thirsty bastards. When it was all over we went out for a drink and a burger. I have rarely had a better time with someone that I thought I wouldn’t have a good time with. Some people really love cocktails, and not just drinking them, like me.

Then I came home and ate and wrote some dumb shit and took a shower and went to bed and had crazy ass dreams. A lot of them. I kept waking up and going back to sleep. Now it’s about one o’clock and I’m eating a bunch of rice and Filipino style “beef steak,” so says the label. GF’s mom made it.

I dreamed the my parents came to the house, they don’t know we’re living together, just out of the blue, as a surprise. And in the dream I thought to myself, ok, shit this is a total dream. It has to be. And it was just my dad and my sister out there. And then I realized it wasn’t a dream at all. And I knew all was fucked. And it took forever for me to finally wake up and realize it was a dream. And then I was like damn I knew it! Phew!

And then we were playing some kind of game where the prizes were magnums of champagne, and it was a drinking game on a huge bus that was driving somewhere, I don’t know where. And I was handing the prizes out but also playing, and then this slick mother fucker got on and started asking if people were making all the profit they wanted to. And he told me just get him something to drink.

Then I was dreaming that I had to take GF’s sister to my grandmother’s because she was living on her on nearby to them but she didn’t know how to take care of herself or eat, and then we spent the night there but I was worried I had left something on at home.

Anyway none of the dreams were very good. That is all.

You Can Hear it with a Different Kind of Ear

Ain’t it funny when you discover that he wasn’t really where it’s at?

Ah shit, I’ve had too much to drink and it was so nice outside today, and this morning I posted about calories and got more views than I got in months, and almost beat my record, which isn’t so impressive really anyway, but fuck you for thinking that, you bastards.

But anyway, fuck the microverse, I’m going to eat fried chicken and lose the robots in the wake of a thousand dumb experiments, and conceal the whole thing in a grocery bag made for two.

Seriously, though, in the end we’re all just paper-mache that your little brother brought back in the Winnebago that he bought in Canada for a half penny and a smile and a proper donut, the kind with the several light speed dynamos that were illegal in that time of the month for ladies of your stature. And then, like Lot’s daughters, you realized the folly of your ways and sucked the dicks of angels, and tried for the life of you to get rid of your tuberculosis cough, and in the end you switched internet providers and called it a night. A cold, hapless night where the reindeer bayed at your front door and left you nasty messes, and ate the chains from your porch swing, and forever grounded your soul.

And then Tupac came to town and really felt what he was saying, and once in a while, well, the fort Breys windy what ankle trapezoids came through and swept the Oscars.