a liquid dinner

forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do. or who they screw. probably whom, but this bottle of yuengling doesn't care any more than i do so fuck it. i'm starting this right by starting it how i went wrong: with a few too many beers and some background music to fuel the...whatever it is i'm feeling...just go with it, that's why you're here.

it's become a dangerous game, even the whole secret blog thing. you let a few people know your innermost thoughts and feelings, and then those people become a part of them and you realize there was little to no point in the stupid secret blog to begin with. you're not about to start censoring yourself for safety's sake, and you blew your own spot by letting the cat out of the bag or the gimp out of the closet, so what are you to do? speak in code so only you and one other person understand you? yeah, that's worked before. but your track record ain't so good, kid, and you might as well start being honest. don't worry though, i won't drag any "innocent" bystanders into it. one of the latent functions of any of this is to make them understand you better, to possibly change the course of history by letting them know in prose what you can't in conversation. true, it hasn't worked to your advantage before; if anything it's gotten you in trouble: soured friendships, pissed roommates, lost loves. but if they can't deal with the truth, or your version of it, then fuck 'em. hang 'em high, right? you wish there was a time machine that allowed the appropriate people to travel back to this record of your state of mind two, five, ten years from now, and maybe change their actions and thereby change history. maybe he'll stick around even though it sucks, maybe she'll grow up a year early and save him from the search, maybe they'll accept their son as he is. but that won't happen, the wrinkle in time was only hypothesized. so you write, and you write as honestly as you can, and anyone who can't take it can go shit in their hat.

or on the toilet seat, whichever they prefer. i came home from work today and freaked out. i cleaned the bathroom yesterday since it was a mess after sunday's party. figured the sanitary state would last awhile, but i was wrong. i walked in there today and saw the shit stains on not only the inside of the bowl, but the fucking seat of the toilet. like, where people are supposed to sit and stuff. i know i'm not the perfect roommate, but i at least try to be respectful and leave things relatively close to how i found them. and when it comes to cleanliness in common areas i am quite adept; my mother raised me to be courteous of others, i was not raised in a barn. you can see why such a gross intrusion would aggravate me. for christ's sake, even a second grader knows better than to leave shit on a fucking toilet seat. but right, you're dealing with people so absorbed with their own petty lives that they can't take the time to consider someone else's. (i say "people," but don't necessarily mean the plural.) anyway, i refused to clean it up and chose to voice my agitation. definitely left two post-it notes right on the damn toilet seat: "whoever did this and left it is FUCKING DISGUSTING," and "i just cleaned the bathroom yesterday, try to show a little respect... -mike." somehow that made it ok for the time being, i said what i had to. but jesus, who raised people like that? common fucking sense, let alone common courtesy. so yeah, then i went to band practice and proceeded to drink heavily, and here i am. typing away, beating at the keys, hearing doors slam downstairs because they're pissed at my post-it notes, and not caring. fuck you, i make sure that i always win. even when i lose.

after a grueling practice which entailed working out an incredibly complicated new song i opted to swing by barnes and noble for some more bukowski since i only have one of his books on deck. it's a little sad that the bookstore is one of my drunken destinations; hey, it beats winding up between the legs of some naive cunt i don't care about! vahsen the conqueror, isn't that what he called me? lately i've been learning to choose not to "conquer" all the time, but we'll get to that later. anyway, i drove my inebriated ass to b & n and made a mad dash to the poetry section, trying to avoid eye contact, trying to see if there was a silver altima in the parking lot, trying to be anyone but me. i grabbed the book that suited my fancy, walked to the register, scratched my head when the clerk thanked me for using my barnes and noble member card to save ten percent, did a queer little finger wave to the girl that works there that knows Myself, and got the fuck out. maneuvering my vehicular down the main drag was easy despite the alcohol pumping through my arteries, but i remembered seeing those three cars pulled over in my town this afternoon and realized it was no coincidence that it was the end of the month and quotas had to be met. i was not about to be a statistic, dwi or not. which, i might add, isn't even fair. they should have a separate drunk driver's license in which you have only to obey all traffic lights and signs while managing to stay between the white and yellow lines and avoiding pedestrians and personal property. i know a lot of people that drive better "drunk" than some people do sober. but i digress. anyway, i didn't wanna get pulled the fuck over, lose my license, have problems getting to work, etc. so yes, i took a right at the T intersection and took the back roads home as to avoid the cop hiding places. made it home ok, obviously. fuck. FUCK. i lost it.

no i didn't. i just didn't see where it went. i still sleep with it and hold it when i'm trying to relax. "a lock of hair you said would prove our love would never die, well ha ha ha." fucking bright eyes. fucking women. i found it. i'm ok again. or at least as ok as i was. sounds can be just as comforting as feelings, though. just killed my beer, opened a new one, bent the cap in half, and dropped it into the empty. the clinking sound of the cap bouncing off the bottom of the bottle made me feel relieved. it means there's another 12 fluid ounces left to numb me, i've been here before. and it's even a quality beer. but fuck, there's a sound i don't like to hear at a time like this: a text message. and sure enough it's her, the first time in a long time. she's apologizing for blowing me off the other night when i drunk-dialed her from the house phone at my parent's place in the catskills. i just wanted to know if she missed me (see previous entry for further explanation). i had had a few and was "pondering life" and such, as my old partner at work used to call it when i zoned out and started daydreaming about these types of things. where was i going with this? oh, right. i'm almost out of wheat thins, which sucks because the last solid food i ate was a BLT at nine in the morning; more importantly, however, i'm on my last beer. i have some canadian club left and could mix it with coke to make my favorite cocktail as of late, but this would be even less intelligible if whiskey were to get involved. oh lord, this wasn't meant to be. none of it. please make it stop.

remember when you used to duke it out like this, kid? remember when it mattered? do it more. drink it more. punch those keys. he's on your arm right next to your mom, make him proud.

fuckin balls. i need a cigarette. i'm surprised i made it this long without one. i deserve it. i deserve every slow death that comes to me. smoke break, be right back.

this is me. this is me breathing and stinking and drinking and trying to convince at least one of you to be the underdog's cut man. but none of you will, no one really cares, and who can blame them? i'm out of beer and it's late and i need another cigarette and have too much to say in the amount of drunk time i have left to make it count. i'll get a twelve after stupid plumbing class tomorrow night and pick up where i left off. i should be doing this more often anyway, it's who i am. there's a line or ten about that in 'the captain is out to lunch...' but i won't bore you with a wiser man's words tonight. and she's not coming over to tuck me in, no surprise. she never did and she never will. people ask me my greatest fear and i tell them it's dying alone. i will.