image stolen from fansided.com
As the sun came up there was a clipped muttering somewhere. Like a tut tut tut. Woke me up. It had been a demon’s voice in my dreams, tut tut tutting me. Tut tut tut you’re going to hell. I was on the couch in my clothes, still blind drunk. Tut tut tut– what the fuck was it.
It was a chicken. One of my neighbors got a chicken. Fucking thing was up at dawn screaming at the sun. Have to kill the chicken, I thought. No one living in the first world should be awakened by a chicken. I imagined climbing his cinder block wall. Dropping over the other side into his cement courtyard with the potted herbs. Snapping the beast’s neck. Vivid. I could feel the rough concrete on my palms. The bird kicking. I slipped back into dreams.
My face hurt. I had to be told what happened in the morning. I tried to fuck my friend’s girl and he almost beat me up. He was on top of me on the couch with his thumbs pressed in my eyes. Saying I’m going to kill you. Don’t say another word, if you say another word I’m going to hurt you. The girl, begging him to calm down. Continue reading
image stolen from theguardian.co.uk
The coffee shop. It’s hot today. There was a fire. Big brown clouds out of Glendorra that make the light look like the apocalypse. It’s not going to rain, we are told. Ever again. The pine trees in the park are cracked and brown and the city’s going to come and raze them all. Their bark has been ravaged by the pine beetle. It preys on vulnerable pines in times of dearth.
What’s more this jerkoff’s gigantic head is blocking my view of the one hot Asian chick in the cafe. Do not sit between a man and a hot young piece of ass, if your skull is the size and shape of a wall mounted air conditioning unit. There is another girl across from me. Ruddy faced Irish broad but she’s wearing a low cut V neck dress and about an inch and a half of tit is showing. I’ll have to make do. Continue reading
image stolen from nytimes.com
Right before the plane took off she sent me an email. Said she was going to kill herself. Cut-and-pasted the research she was doing on method. Pills, carbon monoxide, helium. I knew all of these. Used to hear about them in texts from Astrid. Before that, other women.
They’re great communicators. They know to show not tell that they’re serious. A mere ”I am going to kill myself” means nothing from a woman. Even Anne Sexton and Sylvia fucking Plath wrote volumes of warnings first. Dragged it out over years. If you hear it from me once, I’m already dead. Went out with a bullet hoping WordPress’ “schedule future post” feature worked. Continue reading
Previously on “Drunk Thoughts”
Last night I consumed a pint of Christian Brothers® brandy from Royale Junior Liquor Market and sat down to determine my position on global capitalism and the future of the labor market. This was not inspired by Drunk History:
There are three people who want a job for every job. This doesn’t count people who said “fuck it” and just left the workforce. People underemployed, part time, cleaning toilets with a lit degree.
We don’t make anything physical in America now. The thing we do make, computer code– Mark Zuckerberg is lobbying congress so he can import labor for it. Otherwise he might have to train people. Those people might take that training and do something with it other than make him richer. Can’t have that.
It will get worse. Practically, there will be no jobs soon. First you will be replaced by cheap overseas labor. Then cheap overseas labor will be replaced by robots.
We hear this and we ask: but what will we do for work?
How will we be slaves? Continue reading
image stolen from 6thgradeliteraturevocabulary2011.wikispaces.com
Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.
I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Continue reading