Fuck It (Part V)

Hello, friends. Guess I got to feeling guilty again. You know how it is when you miss a couple of commitments and the next thing you know you’re wrapped in blankets and shaking uncontrollably in a dusty corner.

Well I’m sitting in a chair now, looking in the mirror, and I figured I’d say hello.

I was sick for a week. I was coughing and coughing and coughing. I had to pay for going so hard a couple weeks ago. I worked four 12 hour days and went out three times. I couldn’t hardly sleep the whole time, too. Yeah but the sickness didn’t stop me from working and going out some more and stuff like that. On Saturday I overdosed on Tylenol Severe Cough and Cold and felt like, well I don’t remember, really, just felt bad. I got some cheap cough syrup from Duane Reade. I thought it would be as good as the regular stuff, whatever, had the same ingredients. It tasted like shit and didn’t do much of anything otherwise.

I had an iced coffee for the first time in a while and then my stomach hurt the rest of the eight hours I was at work. It was miserable. Jesus Christ. I used to drink that shit every day in the summer and I always kind of felt like that, honestly. Jesus.

Woo! Some low level problems out here to be sure but you know these past few weeks I’ve tried to entertain very few thoughts so I am identifying with my body more. Just trying to convince myself that I am not my thoughts or feelings or experiences. But not really trying to convince myself of that because that would just be my thoughts convincing my thoughts of something. So I’m just not thinking about that shit and just existing in a manner of speaking.

I recently learned that Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises was based so closely on real events that the people who were there when it happened said that they couldn’t believe he was passing it off as fiction. I think I’ll write something like that about the restaurant. Just write down a bunch of real interesting shit and make it look like a novel.

Sometimes I have been thinking of some more shit Malcolm Gladwell likes to talk about. He always makes me feel better about my life. He said that there are two kinds of artists, some are like Picasso and some are like Cezanne. Cezanne would paint the same thing over and over again and wouldn’t produce anything of value until later in life, while Picasso painted shit quickly. Everyone thinks you have to be like Picasso I guess, but maybe I’ll just keep doing shit all circular like and eventually I’ll make something pretty, too. Ha or just be lazy till the day that I die. Who cares! Fuck it.

Yeah last night my wife was telling me some plans she was thinking about which involved modifying some plans we had already made, some life goals and shit and I was like is that what you want to do and she said what do you want to do? And I said that sounded good, after staring at her for an uncomfortably long time. What do I want to do? Fuck it, I’m doing it.

On the Precipice of a Wasted Day

Looks like WordPress has been having some issues with their ping backs on the daily prompt so I guess I’m not special enough to actually get banned from being posted on there. That’s upsetting to me, but guess what, when they fix that shit I’m going to post on there again! Ha! Sorry, pickledsparklymooseprincess!

It’s all shitty and raining outside and cold as a bitch but I’ve got the day off. And I ain’t even going to do shit. This old mother fucker can call me if he wants. He owes me like five hundred dollars at this point and I ain’t even done shit on that project for a few weeks.

I’d better be careful today. Sometimes I have days off and I set the expectations so low that by the end of the day I’m like shit man I didn’t do anything today but I also didn’t enjoy it. I have a bad relationship with days off. Almost makes me wish I had an Xbox. At least by the end of the day I would have built myself a new battleship or something. I need instant gratification or else it’s all a waste. I guess I could try to get a thousand more iPhone pages into Les Miserables. Then again I been reading on days I work, because I can, whereas I have not been writing because I don’t have time for that shit. So I should just write the whole time, but I always say that and then at the end of the day I do not feel good. And then the next day I probably bust out a thousand words in five minutes that were better than the whole day of writing before. But of course it could be that I had to write all that dumb shit to find those five minutes of gold. That’s only a rationalization; I don’t really believe it.

And I can already feel the sleep coming on. Maybe I just have to get dressed in shitty clothes and get my ass out there in the rain and get uncomfortable. Maybe that’s the secret.

Last night I stayed up until 3 drinking and listening to Nat King Cole’s Joy to the World. I woke up at 5:30 to the sound of a big mirror crashing to the floor. My heart rate tripled and all the sudden I got some extreme heart burn. I downed two Pepto-Bismol tablets and a glass of milk but I thought I was going to have a god damned heart attack. I don’t know what the fuck that was about.

So here we are at one in the afternoon. How will this day play out? How will I end up feeling? What will I wish I had done by the time 9 o’clock gets here?

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.