Spent most of the week in the wilderness, drinking only detox levels of alcohol. The amount it would take to stop me from shaking and hallucinating giant worms chewing their way out of my body, etc. I haven’t actually tried not drinking. I am probably not at the level where I’d have any real effects, I’d probably just be crabby. But I read somewhere that you can’t just stop drinking, that it could kill you. So I use this as an excuse to drink. I am “tapering off.”
After this, who knows. Maybe I’ll join Alcoholics Anonymous. Except every person I’ve ever known in Alcoholics Anonymous sucks. They’re either a sanctimonious pain in the ass who can’t shut the fuck up about “the program” or they’re just– you sit in a room with them and you feel the waves of misery shimmering off them. They broadcast unhappiness. They are touchy, sensitive to slight, humorless, cruel when they have a chance. I don’t want to be one of these people.
They tell you you can get laid in Alcoholics Anonymous, but of course, like all the other places they tell you you can get laid it’s bullshit. I’ve been to a couple meetings and it’s a sausage fest. 8 to 1, 9 to 1. About a Los Angeles bar ratio in other words, and the guys who are pulling ass are probably the long haulers, the experienced AA guys who can reassuringly quote the Big Book to the girl bass player who just got her third DUI. Like any cult, the new guy doesn’t get pussy. You probably have to spend years horning your way in to some social scene of people who drink coffee in diners at 1am and trade stories about relatives they ran over. Shaky failed comedians who sit around and one up each other with stories of how bad they once were.
And who wants to hear about shit like that.
I hit my head. This was on Monday, Monday night. I went to a Memorial Day barbecue and drank moderately, but didn’t eat much. Plus I had smoked my remaining heroin the night before and put down 2 bottles of wine, again on not much food. I didn’t feel shaky at all but I don’t remember getting home, just waking up on my couch around 7am. The back of my right hand was all scratched up, a nail was hanging off, my back was all scraped, and I had a headache. Now it’s Friday and I still have a headache. There’s some wide patch of swelling on the back of my skull but I can’t see what it is because of my hair. Good. I didn’t lose any hair. Continue reading
image stolen from occupyobservations.blogspot.com
I’m trying to masturbate to the redhead with the big titties from the Standard but the problem is, Julianne Moore has a movie coming out. So they interviewed her on NPR and I heard it and got her face stuck in my head. I get about three seconds of the redhead from the party before it becomes Julianne Moore’s pointy fucking Count Chocula face. Now you are cursed too. Go try to jerk off to a redhead and try not to think of Julianne Moore.
The redhead with the big titties wasn’t opening the door in room 413 and the party was winding down, so I admitted defeat and walked over to skid row to buy black tar heroin. The first guy I talked to just took my money and disappeared. He had handed me a garbage bag full of L.A. Kings T shirts as collateral, which I now own. Email me if you are extra large. Continue reading
All right. In the coffee shop now. I seem to be past the sketchy too much speed phase. I’m not proud of what I masturbated to, or the means I used to do it. But let’s never speak of it again.
The problem is I’ve done so much coke in my life that anything even remotely resembling that feeling fires up a whole set of reflexes– grind your jaw, snort back mucous, look sketchy, jerk off with Rube Golberg contraptions… I can’t just take legal speed for children like a normal person, I gotta take more and more and hole myself up in my filthy apartment opening 99 tabs of fetish porn. Let this be a lesson. From now on, clean living. Whole grains and natural fruit juice. Maybe a Zima on Fridays.
It’s not that bad. I’m sure I seem normal enough to the world. Except for the part where I became transfixed by a full page full color newspaper ad for NUDE GIRLS that had blown open on the sidewalk, a spread of an alluringly thick young blonde woman’s naked back. The top of her meaty ass. I was staring at this as a family with several children walked by. I thought about pocketing it. Continue reading
All right. In the park. It’s quiet, the wind is whispering in the trees, song sparrows are singing. I feel massively understimulated. Inside there was Twitter, Facebook, pornography. Out here the emptiness of nature. Crows cawing, woodpeckers. Beautiful wholesome things that will only fuck up your high. Meanwhile my neighbors are doing a photo shoot; their yard is filled with the type of nubile nineteen year old band hanger-on who wears huge sunglasses and silver leggings. Right next to me is Dov Charney’s cocaine jerkoff fantasy come to life, lithe hot young ass bending over, and I am shut out of it. Maybe I should just jerk off again. Continue reading
Well shit, I feel pretty fuckin good. Who knew that taking speed was the answer. Or whatever this is. Has to be methamphetamine with one atom tweaked off so they could get a patent. If this is what every upper middle class twelve year old fuckup in America feels like every day, they could do a lot worse. Sure, they will have to come down. Sure, you are hollowing out their brains while they’re still growing, probably making it so they feel a gnawing, jittery emptiness without an ever escalating dose of time released pharmaceutical speed. Sure they will be haunted by visions of people they love falling out of cars, their pets on fire, a constant drone that they’re unlovable and will never accomplish anything… sure it puts your soul to sleep by smothering it with the very tippy top part of your mind that feels nothing and exhorts you to meticulously clean your fish tank. But why mourn the bridegroom while he’s with us. This beats the fucking hell out of feeling anything. Normally this time of day is: holy fucking shit, I have had three months of no obligations, and I have done nothing. I have spent that time looking at fat asses on the internet rather than hang gliding into volcanic chasms. I have rawdogged people I would never speak to in public rather than seeking my soul mate. I have read Gawker instead of Dostoevsky. I have spent time on websites that discuss Kim Kardashian and not at the museum. God, what I would normally feel at 10:36am on a weekday– I am burning this precious gift of life on bullshit, doing worse than nothing. Now I feel like: maybe I should stand up and pace a lap around the kitchen again. Continue reading
Image stolen from Flickr user avalon_music
I need to stop drinking and I can’t. I get drunk every night, usually alone. Most nights it’s pretty harmless; I just play Xbox. Last night I walked down to the Cinco de Mayo DUI checkpoint on Sunset and started loudly fucking with cops. Eventually they circled up around me like a wall of beatdown and told me they were gonna book me for public intoxication. At the time I had courage, I was screaming a bunch of slogans I heard in youtube videos about Constitutional rights and am I being detained. In reality I was a loud asshole fucking with people trying to do their jobs, and was in fact publicly intoxicated, and probably in danger of running into traffic. Still. I did get one guy to not say shit and not blow into the breathalyzer and I got his wife to call a lawyer instead. He got a ticket, not a DUI, and they let him go. I saved him ten grand. Probably half of what he makes in a year. He will probably kill a child driving drunk now. Continue reading
As you might have expected, I had a cocaine-fueled orgy. That was my candy hearts and flowers. The phrase “cocaine-fueled orgy” is actually stupid because of course cocaine does the opposite of fuel you. It’s building the god damn pyramids to pop wood and by the time you do you just want to do another bump and talk more shit. Still, it gets the girls in your house.
The girls were 69′ing on my carpet and I was sort of loitering on the edges trying to get my dick in an open mouth. The problem with women is they get too into one another. Eventually you’re just jerking off and spectating. But there are worse things to watch. Better to see a Peruvian chick squatting on a hipster girl’s face than Law and Order reruns or some shit.
Friday night I got blind drunk, alone, on cheap brandy. And I played Baldur’s Gate. Baldur’s Gate is a video game version of Dungeons and Dragons from the nineties. It is the greatest video game ever made. My character is a wizard.
The game kept crashing. It would crash at the same place– every time I entered the Jovial Juggler Inn in Beregost. I spent many hours googling variations on “Jovial Juggler Crash.” A lot of people have the same problem. Going back over a decade. But apparently in this instance it’s connected to my use of a mod that allows the old game to play in resolutions suited to today’s modern computers and screens. I spent many hours uninstalling and reinstalling the game and the mod and downloading both things again and changing my save files and etc. Reloading a save game from before my characters entered the Beregost land tile. None of it fixed the problem. I will simply not go into the Jovial Juggler Inn. It’s annoying because later in the game, Commander Vai of the Flaming Fist mercenaries will pay you 150 gold pieces for every bandit scalp you collect, and 1,000 gold pieces for every wyvern head, and she is quartered at the Jovial Juggler Inn. There are many bandits and wyverns in the game, and I need that fucking money. But what can you do. Eventually I passed out. Continue reading