Diary: Worst Case Scenario

Aythya collaris

Let’s assume I never get laid again as long as I live. What happens. I have no children. Fine. I die alone. Fine. Age slowly, rot; disease, brain turned to mush. I forget who or what I am. Trapped in a state nursing home. Surly orderlies snap my arthritic fingers to get my rings. Shitting myself, fed from a tube jammed in my throat, no one to hold my hand as the pain takes forever to kill me. Each instant containing lifetimes. OK– this exercise was supposed to end in “that doesn’t sound so bad.” Fuck.

Try to hang myself but my bony arthritic hands can’t tie a knot. Wallowing in weeping sores in a hospital bed; I roll out and try to aim my head at the floor but it only breaks my face, my pelvis, thick needles ripping out of my arms…. you lose your ability to move but not your ability to feel… Jesus Christ. A friend from the past shows up; I mutely plead to be smothered with a pillow. He just kicks me in the nuts.

Only way to avoid this is to have kids. Only way to make kids is to get some ass. Right back where we started.

Last night I met a girl at a party. Got her phone number. This is a big step. I’m shy since I quit drinking. My sponsor tells me: Tinder girls are maladjusted cretins. That I’ll meet my future wife in the real world. He’s right about the first part, so I’m trusting him. I met a girl in life. I texted and asked her on a date. She has not responded. If she wanted the dick I’d have heard back by now. Sorry, not the dick– if she wanted to settle down in a nice suburban home. I’ll die alone.

Fuck these girls anyway. I know what I want. I just keep not finding it. A girl who’s all right looking and kind of cool. That’s it. All right looking means under a certain age and not chromosome damaged. Or any Asian. Kind of cool means she likes good books, she’s a poet, something. They’re not out there. Every woman I meet knows nothing and cares about nothing.

But I’m thinking the wrong way. Focus on what you can give to someone, my sponsor tells me. Well: I hate myself. I hate my face. Giant nose cracked in half, huge uneven nostrils flapping open; impossibly long white nose hairs. You trim but always miss a couple. They snake out when you’re going in for a kiss like blind sea worms grasping for her eyes. I hate my body. Starvation level body fat but still, folds when I bend over. I work out like a convict but only look good lit from the side, flexing so hard I grind my molars out of whack. I have no job no money no possessions and my house is full of cat hair and centipedes. I’ll never have the kind of life your modern woman requires. My beard is patchy. I have too many moles.

I hate myself and how could anyone ever love me. If I could write something good I’d love myself. But you get a good story about three times a year. It comes in the shower on a day you have time. Couple hours to crank out, couple more to edit and there you have it. But you aren’t responsible. It’s from some antenna you put out and it happens to pick up a signal. Ideas sit for years before the way to crack them hits you. You can’t force it. All you can do is try not to fuck it up. Stay out of its way. Don’t slack off and erase your mind reading about rape on Twitter.

What are you gonna do. Fucking relax. It’s a beautiful day and you’re at the duck pond. You’ve seen a ring-necked duck and 2 kinds of egret. Cormorants, male and female; one of them carried nesting material. Rough day overall but on the waterfowl front it’s a winner. So there’s that.

Tags: AIDS