How to describe this feeling. Hollow. Normally I’d despair about the work day. About girls. Sucks but at least it’s a feeling. Today: don’t care. I’ll work demeaning jobs forever. Don’t care. Never have a relationship. Don’t care. No wife, no kids: good. To create another being that could feel this way: worse than Hitler. My dick would make 80 years of pain. Cauterizing my nuts off in a campfire would be a mercy to the world.
Normally I look in the mirror and think: god damn I’m ugly. Today: don’t care. My hideous winter face. Skin so white it’s clear. Like jellyfish flesh. Blue veins popping. Clear except the nose with its rare meat pink squamous cell carcinomas. Pustulent rectal-looking pores. Eyes caked with fat snaking veins. My hair. Receded hairline. Its ridiculous little lilt, ridiculous little pouf in the back. Don’t care. Hideous zombielike thing, rotten from the inside. Dying. Good. Dear God, I pray. Use me or don’t. Kill me by the side of the road. Who gives a fuck.
You start relating to David Foster Wallace metaphors. Burning building, 800 foot fall. Hollow feeling. A drink could fill it. But you’re blessed now to know alcohol won’t help. You can play the tape forward. Get drunk and drunk and drunk and you’re back where you started but fatter. Your nose redder. No more bon vivant bar hopping– go to bed at 9PM now. Your liver hurts. You can drink but you’ll drink alone. Everything like it is now but stupider. AA replaces booze with God, but once in a while– the baby bird squeaks from the nest and no one comes. You’re on your own. Where there was one set of footprints… whatever, you’re not gonna beat The Onion’s joke here.
All because fucking daylight savings time ended. That’s it. Clock back one hour, tweak to the light when you get off work. Enough to make me not want to live. Not want to spread misery by continuing. Making more people like me.
All right, Sylvia– chill the fuck out and let’s take a shit.
delicioustacos 
If you got off your ass and did something about your life you wouldn’t be like this, you whining loser turd.
Move to Montana, Wyoming or Idaho. Find a woman from those locales with different
values than where you are now. Have kids, and then you will find purpose. Kids will force purpose upon you. You’re only 40 – you can easily start again. 5 to 10 more years and it will be too late.
Get off your faggy ass and do something. You might even start writing stuff worth reading. You can write, but you’re just going around in endlessly repetitive and boring circles.
Either do the above or jump in front of a fucking train.
And stop weighing your balls.
Cool read. I kinda agree with Anal Trauma, but I could just as well have written this shit myself.
Same.
I hate to say it but,
This Too Shall Pass.
Just please never stop writing.
Relevant:http://thelastpsychiatrist.com/2011/10/marc_marons_mid-life_crisis.html
Don’t stop writing or I will kill myself and my suicide note will point the finger squarely at your lack of updates as what sent me over the edge and my blood will be on your hands.
Your hair looks fine if it is going thin use Rogaine it is over the counter and it works, do not use Propecia it will fuck up your sex drive.
Do not drink, I know you do AA and drugs are forbidden but marijuana will not fuck with your liver and will give you perspective and it is legal in your state.
Above all keep writing, the world is watching. Or at least they will be watching one day soon. That day will come and when it does you will look back on days like this and be glad you kept writing.
Be well.
please don’t stop. this blog reminds me that I’m not alone.
As all the other guys said it before: don’t stop writing man. I love your writing. Start skateboarding, that’s what I recommend. I think you need a cool hobby.
Fuck us. We’re your fan club, reading, giving you meaning. But fuck us. Do what you want. You’d be a good guy even if you stopped writing, stopped fucking. Whatever. I’m actually proud of you, dropping the drink, suffering and exalting through AA, trying, doing a book. Just keep being honest and step out a little.
Your blog is my porn addicts anonymous meeting.
I come here after a porn binge, which means about every saturday. And I feel accepted and at peace. For I am a guilty addict. Not that you are.
My computer died a month ago and I was stuck with my tiny laptop with a screen too small to enjoy video on, and I was off porn for a few weeks (with the exception of a one minute dry rub to an R-rated jpeg to clear the pipes, which is ideal) and I felt my internal drive coming back on line and I wanted to write again and talk to girls and I was reading books again and feeling good. Then I fixed the big computer and perved out. So I’m going to have to have only a small screen laptop for the rest of my life until I’m so old that it doesn’t matter if I do drugs and watch porn all day.
Just thought I’d share that.
Also, I encounter your same hollowness. And now I’m considering accepting lowered expectations and just enjoying the little things. And then I do that and experience how little enjoyment there is in all that. I think of how lame most adults seemed when I was a kid, and how that may be because they had accepted their lot in life and were just trying to enjoy the shit existence they had after letting go of hope. I’m concerned though that the hollowness may come at times when I’ve won the battle with addiction and realize that there’s nothing else. But what else can you do? Don’t buy the booze, you won’t drink it. Beyond that.. sheeeeit. Try to achieve some greatness in whatever your niche is, regardless of how obscure?