I’ve psyched myself out of writing chapter 4 of Finally, Some Good News. Good. Fuck it. I can’t do it. Suddenly writing a blog post isn’t enough. What you need to feel you’ve written something just escalates. Fuck writing. Take a year off. You’ll never be famous and you’ll never even get laid from it again. Your readers are ingrates and bums. Fuck them all. Write something great and bury it, burn it. Make a statue and hide it behind a wall. Piss on the wall.
Why don’t you write erotic fiction. Why don’t you write horror stories. George Saunders didn’t write his first novel until he was (current age of George Saunders minus two years). And fucking look at this–while I was typing a window popped up prompting me to save. I wasn’t looking. Typed a paragraph into it. Now it’s fucking lost– wait no, here it is.
What’s the lesson here. God takes care of me and everything’s going to be all right? Bullshit. There is no God. Nothing is going to be all right. Jesus Christ what if there’s a fucking afterlife. There’s only hell in my theology. Hell or you’re a ghost meekly trying to get the living to notice as you stay trapped in a one bedroom apartment in a neighborhood where girls used to go, forever. When my cat died– when my cat, the only thing I loved, was violently shaken to death by my fat neighbor’s put bull while I was away at work– I wrote about it. Someone commented with a thing called Rainbow Bridge. It said when you die you go to a meadow. All your pets are waiting for you, reverse aged so they’re in their prime. They don’t hate each other like Bud hated most other animals. They frolic in this meadow until you’re dead. You show up. Prance in the flowers. Walk on a rainbow into some second tier of afterlife. The next meadow. Or the relief of blackness when you’re shut off like a light switch.
Bud and I did frolic in meadows together. I really should kill my neighbor’s dog. But I don’t want to look over in the next meadow and see that fat fuck playing with him.
There are a few good moments, but life is mostly shit. If you’re the sort of person who talks about privilege: I have bad news. I am white, tall, not ugly, heterosexual. I was born with a dick and consider myself a man. I can walk and think and while I’ve had mental illness gnawing my soul incessantly every instant since birth like I’m painted in honey staked next to the fire ants’ nest– I can appear normal in short bursts. I can say good morning to a neighbor walking his dog. I can show up to an office and perform sustained activities that I hate and thus contribute to the tax base. In other words I’m not disabled per se. And yet: life is still mostly shit. Privilege does not mean happiness. When I think about black people’s oppression I just think how great it would be to have huge medial deltoids and a big dick.
I fucked Holly yesterday. Thank God. She asked me to stop but it counts. She asked me to stop because she wants me to rape her. Maybe in a past life but not at 2PM when it’s sunny out. When we’ve been chatting about her dissertation. Sipping herbal tea. She didn’t like it because I wasn’t punching her temple like she wanted. But my dick went into a pussy. Suddenly I don’t think about strapping on a vest of flechettes and red phosphorus and heading to a protest, government building or school. We went for Indian food after. She didn’t eat because she relapsed out of AA and has body dysmorphia. All day she takes prescription speed and writes her dissertation. I texted her because she lives next to Best Buy. I wanted a folding pocket keyboard so I could write on my phone. It was not available.
I have three years of sobriety today. Things have gotten better. At least, for the people around me. For me I’m as miserable as when I was ten years old thinking about hell. Forced to imagine black crustaceans swarming up my arms scissoring off my flesh. Things got better for a minute then regressed below normal. There are still issues to work through. Still growth to be had, my sponsor tells me. He tries to sell me on further twelve step programs. Al-Anon. Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. Al-Anon is housewives who congratulate themselves on staying with wife beaters. Something in me smells their weakness. I want to punch them for burning a roast. SLAA, cringing men crying over wives who left them. Not even because they cheated. The wives left because they masturbated. AA does work to make you stop drinking. But these other programs are like the Honored Matres to AA’s Bene Gesserit. By the time you get there the author’s lost the thread.