image stolen from photo-equine.com
I’m not maintaining conscious contact with my higher power these days. I get it for a minute. In the morning when I go look at trees and grass. Hear the birds. In nature I remember: I’m a tiny mote in God’s creation. No more significant than an insect. But no less perfect.
Can’t seem to keep this in my head, out in the world. Since my dad died and I turned 40 (and also before, forever) I’m obsessed with dying childless. Being broke. Being a bad writer. Inadequate. I think I’m running the show. Blowing it harder than I could have ever imagined. Continue reading
photo by Terry Lucas, via flickr creative commons
It’s over between us, she says. She’s mad about this thing again. Where are the girls who don’t dredge up old shit. Just because it’s time; you haven’t fucked up in a while. Girls who don’t make you prove it. Girls want you to love them but not so much it’s clear they can do better. Listen: I love you, cunt. Leave it alone.
I’m tainted by the the manosphere. I think it’s a “shit test.” My internet peers hate women but just want a wife and kids. You stay home I go work. Saturday I cut grass in the cul de sac while you occupy yourself with weaving. But women work now. Jobs pay half as much. We have the same money but the work just multiplied. And besides you’re fat and you hate me so I might as well just jerk off into other people till I’m dead. A bad belief system but what else is there. Continue reading
Of course I can’t fucking write this morning. Needed to prove something to myself. I’m fucking 40. 40. I’ll die young. Dad died at 67. So did his dad. His dad and his dad and so on. 27 years left.
Whatever– that’s a long time. Three weeks would be a long time. 57 minutes until I have to leave for work. Feels like planets could coalesce out of space dust, go through volcanic cataclysms, roaring flaming atmospheres. Sentient algae come into being. Form civilizations. All that could happen in the eternity it took me to write that fucking sentence. By the time I go warm up the Subaru, sixteen pages of this stream of consciousness shit. Maybe one sentence usable. People say life is short. It isn’t. Not even in retrospect. Continue reading
I had a new OKCupid message. Got excited for a second. It was a man. He said: write some more you lazy fuck.
My dad died Monday morning. I was fresh off the plane back in LA. Made amends on his deathbed. He was in and out of consciousness. Who knows if he heard what the fuck I said. You sacrificed for my education and all I did was get high. You wrote me letters and I never wrote back. I blew off my brothers. Patrick went to college in California and I only saw him twice. This was selfish, isolating and disrespectful of me and I want to make amends for it. Continue reading