"The world is full of shipping clerks who have read the Harvard Classics." -Buk

this wine is hard to drink, but it's easier from the bottle. it's a variety of red i've never heard of, not that i'm a wine person: tempranillo. it's the house wine where she works, she brought it over a week and a half ago after her shift. the wine she brought and the candles i lit before she got here almost helped us convince each other that we could even pretend to give a damn about one another. it's not like fucking was a new routine, we've had our share of romps in the sack in the past. the difference was that this time the act was there, we almost even kissed a few times. and she stayed the night, which is something that the last few since the big break-up haven't done. it was kind of a stipulation of mine. i miss sleeping next to someone more than i miss being inside of someone. i'm pretty sure i've been used for sexual favors by the handful of girls i've hooked up with since i've been single. that would've been an enthusiastic statement a long time ago; now it just makes me feel cheap and used and like the laundry list of girls i've bedded in my time must've felt. all i want is to feel someone next to me for more than an hour and wake up next to her in the morning. karma's a motherfucker. yeah, this wine ain't so bad from the bottle as long as i pretend it's how he would've done it. but this isn't going to be another typical entry, i promised another funny one.

i'm not finishing my drunk alone for the sake of drinking alone, i just hate not finishing what i start (courtships, college, coitus). we had band practice tonight and i tossed a few back so i figured i'd top the night off instead of coming down from the buzz and then going to sleep. it was a good practice, we made some changes to two of our songs that made a big difference in their sound. i didn't get how much i missed being in a band and playing with guys i love as much as i did until i start doing it again. the one-year band hiatus was a detrimental time wasted with nightly arguments with an insignificant other instead of productive jam sessions. (i say "detrimental and "insignificant," but i still haven't had the heart to get rid of her shit. everyone that comes into my room asks why there are two pairs of panty hose and some pads thrown in the corner behind my desk, i say she used to come here after work and i didn't want to get rid of her stuff in case she wants it. she doesn't. but throwing it all the reminders out is way too final for someone like me.) take another pull of the bottle. remind yourself that this was not going to be another of your typically pensive, generally miserable ones. fuck. yeah.

i just went outside for a smoke and the much-anticipated rain commenced in large, scattered drops. the heat lightning flashed and down towards the butt of my cigarette, timewise, a crack of thunder finally made itself known. the electrical storm caused my power to cut out for a second just now and i retyped the last few sentences from memory, they're probably not as decent as the originals. but really, who's keeping score? who's taking notice of the tulip tree saplings in front of my house, and whether they are fresh from this season or leftovers that made it through the winter? will he hear the songs or will he listen? does she know i want to make that right turn every day after work and tell her all about it, or does she think i hate her as much as i want to pretend i do?, even after she told me she was embarrassed to have gone out with me the last time we spoke. is it wrong to drink cheap beer out of desperation and availability, even if the enemy paid for it? does my mom know i saw her crying in the kitchen last night?, and that it only underscores the fact that it doesn't get better with time? would i be forgiven for doing what i wish i had the balls to do? is anyone reading any of this ever going to do anything about it?

and one time i hooked up with the most beautiful girl i know. beforehand she asked where i came from and pretended to care what my answer was, and afterwards her exact words were "thank you for the cunnilingus." but right, you want to hear the funny part.

here, i'll even hit Enter a bunch of times so the entertaining part is clearly distinguished from the usual morbid bullshit, in case that's all you were expecting.











ya know what, fuck this. i can't pretend to be lighthearted when i'm this hammered and bitter. another broken promise, get used to it if you plan on sticking around in this world.




Crrently reading:
"The Journals of Sylvia Plath," edited by Ted Hughes and Frances McCullough.
"Mockingbird Wish Me Luck" by Charles Bukowski.