Well fuck shit ass penis Jew cunt. I have to clean the fucking house. I am hung over as fuck from drinking bad wine and smoking cigarettes. I want to crawl into a fucking hole and die. A filthy hole crawling with house centipedes. I will have to bleach the toilet. I fucking hate bleaching the toilet. I hate all responsibility. I do nothing all day every day and that is too god damn much. I have no obligations and a very small space to maintain and yet I need a fucking maid.
God alfuckingmighty. This headache is unbelievable. Cheap yeasty red wine from the clearance rack at the Los Feliz liquor store. Once in a while you find a gem there. I have a girl coming over. She canceled last night because she had to work, and I thought: wonderful. I can get drunk by myself, pet the cat and watch Louis CK. I lived that dream. For a bright shining moment the whole world was laid out before me. I had a good facebook chat with Misti. She saw all the heroin shit and reached out because she was concerned. She is a lovely person. A good human being. You never know where you’ll find one. And the good thing about a girl who did porn is you don’t have to bug her for pictures of her pussy.
I had a good time on the big date but I won’t see her again because she’s funnier than me and I don’t know how to handle it. Also, she actually can’t drink, it wasn’t just bullshit. She has epilepsy and has to take pills that make her vomit and shit and blast cerebrospinal fluid out of her nostrils if booze is added, or something. She found out she has epilepsy by waking up covered in blood and missing all her front teeth. She went into the bathroom to look in the mirror and her sink was shattered into little pieces. She had broken her sink by bashing it with her face from underneath. That is my kind of woman, and it’s too bad I can’t date her. But my ego is too fragile. Someone like Nikol is the perfect balance. She might actually be funnier than me but she drinks so much and takes so many pills that she handicaps herself. Brings it down to my level.
You get hungover and your body starts making you remember the very specific taste of the alcohol you drank. Wine so bad it was fizzy; its taste made you think of termites chewing through pressure treated two by fours. Cheap Mexican brandy like formaldehyde. Your body is trying to tell you this herb is poison, this meat is forbidden and thou shalt loathe its carcase, and you’re like I know, dude– shut up. If you don’t want me to drink stop making me so fucking unhappy all the time. Stop firing off adrenaline so it feels like a fucking car accident when I talk to a woman, and I will stop poisoning you with rotgut liquor. The body yields nothing. It is your enemy and to feel joy you have to kill it.
I have to clean the house. So far I have laundered my bathmat, rid it of the greasy footprints and the one corner encrusted with cat shit. Even that was too much work. There are still the dishes, the taint-smelling underwear, the dust, the spiders’ nests replete with egg sacs in every dark corner. The ridiculous heaps of high heels and panties and earrings that every single woman insists on abandoning here. Little baggies coated in white residue except for the shape of my tongue rubbed clear. A Super Soaker laying on the rug in a puddle, that I use every morning at 7 to blast my neighbor’s dog. It only makes him bark more but I need him to know he hasn’t beat me. The faucet leaks and under it is a queasy pool of standing water that’s turning colors; it smells worse than shit, it smells like dead bodies, and my landlady was just here and just asking me if everything was OK with the apartment and I said yes because I was too hung over to have her in the kitchen. I didn’t want to hear some story about her kids or some shit, her pets. I will just live with it.
Every day is like this now, except a few. I try not drinking and I wake up just as miserable, but on those days I have nothing to attribute it to. Today I think: I’m unhappy because I have a hangover. The other days, I think I’m unhappy because… why? Because I am a horrible person who does no good for anybody and has accomplished nothing. The only reason I’m not dead is because it would make other people sad. That is literally the only courtesy I ever perform for anybody. Not killing myself. Enduring the endless hours, the intolerable people, the myriad slights and pains and indignities that make each second feel like a thousand lifetimes, so my mother doesn’t have to feel sad. That is the only thing I do but it is just as big a deal as Jesus. It’s Jesus in reverse. Someone make a fucking religion around me.
All right, I just beat off. Much better. Forget all that shit I said. Life is a wonderful journey of flowers and hummingbirds.