A friend writes:
I’m glad Nikol told you to stop smoking heroin. I couldn’t sleep all night because I had a lot of things to say to you–over and over in my head that I couldn’t say
You are being really self destructive. I want you to stop right now. Stop fucking dirty whores in low places. Stop smoking heroin. Stop sharing anything you put near your mouth with homeless people. Stop walking around skid row in your panties where you are just stupid easy prey. Stop spending your already little resources on any of these things.
Stop saturating yourself with darkness, ugliness, depravity. This is not a moral objection–it’s that–honestly- your energy is changing. There is a garbage in your aura—I can feel it. You don’t sparkle with invisible magnetic light. You emanate a corpse-like quality while sleeping. I love you and I’m not trying to be harsh. You need stimulation that is love. Go camping with me. Go to nature alone. Take Nikol’s kids to the fucking theater. Go look at art with me– it can surprise you. Darkness is fine and I certainly have my share–but it’s out if proportion now– when you exaggerated my voice of concern in that blog it was an invitation for me to tell you. For you to be accountable to some force somewhere that will insist that you just stop it. You don’t have much time– life will fly by. Don’t mark every moment with the beast.
Please tell me you hear me– even if you tell me to fuck off. I have always dreamed that someone might care about me enough to say these things when I hurt myself. No one ever has or at least has never been brave enough to try. It’s not easy to do–but I just won’t have it–OK? Stop dying inside. Right now.
I hear you, and you’re right.
This weekend seems like a good rock bottom. Failing to fuck and walking around skid row in faggoty boxer shorts waving money to get shitty Mexican smack. That sounds like a good stopping point. Because honestly what I was doing was trying to die.
In a way, I’m ashamed that my worst moment was so meek. Junkies and tough guys and drunks will always one up your story. Oh yeah, well I shot up while I was driving a school bus full of retarded kids on a mountain road with no barriers to a 10,000 foot drop and I had to get the smack by fighting a 700 pound Siberian to the death with a broken arm. I drank a handle and painted my Tercel to look like the General Lee and took it up a ramp into the window of the mayor’s office because fuck the law, man. I sold my kidneys to pay a Nigerian dwarf to shit on me dressed like my grandmother. OK. I am a pussy. My scary stories were: I had heterosexual sex in a suburban hotel with a prostitute who was probably pursuing an Associate’s Degree. And once I was near black people in order to purchase drugs.
But yeah, it’s time for a little light. Little more good and a little less evil. Get the cat his rabies shots, look for some jobs, spend some more time in the park with the birds. Chase less pussy. Drink less booze. But what do you fill the hours with. Writing would be great but nobody can do this shit like a full time job. Your mind just empties as soon as you sit at the keys. I am the greatest novelist the world has ever known when I’m sitting in traffic, when I’m in the shower. Ideas come fast, insightful ideas that will teach important lessons and make people feel less alone. I frantically try to scribble them down on a gum covered Von’s receipt while steering with my knees. There are piles of them, all chickenscratch. Then I get hours alone with my computer and my mind is empty. A fucking cinderblock wall.
What do you fill the hours with, if it isn’t booze, drugs, pussy, jerking off, work, religion. Most people’s answer is fucking World of Warcraft. Even people with kids just look at stupid shit on the internet all day. Even the pope probably spends half his time looking at porn. The human lifespan is far too long for any real portion of it to be spent doing something meaningful. Maybe less time alone but people can be fucking intolerable. Maybe a job but fucking come on, man. I got an interview tomorrow, some bullshit. One of these craigslist job posts that makes you jump through hoops like a hot girl’s OKCupid profile. Your subject heading should be the name of the winner of the Masters Tournament in 1986. We will only respond to inquiries that point out which word we have misspelled. I think you left out most of the letters in “cocksucker” right after “sincerely,” you pain in the ass cunt.
What do you fill the hours with. Being alone is horrible and being with people is horrible and the TV all sucks and there’s only so many times you can jerk off before you fucking scab over. You have about 20 minutes in a day, right after you belt down your first three drinks, to wake up a little. Start chewing over some problem you had as the booze ramps up and you think: hey man, that shit’s really gonna be OK. You have a smaller and smaller window between a little euphoria and losing all motor skills, burning the end of your nose with a lighter trying to fire up a cigarette butt, banging your head on the fucking overhead lamp. What architect put that fucking thing there. Fucking jerkoff.
All right, well, let’s find another way. I don’t know what the fuck it is but this ain’t it. Maybe salads or something.