Yeah, so I'm drunk.....
OK, so it's been about 6 months since I've written in this thing and now I find myself updating twice in one drunken stupor, merely hours apart. I figured by the time I returned with an update, something huge would have happened in my life such as the Mike Hooker for Mayor campaign actually proving to be successful or I popped out a child or two, Pitt part 2, or some such craziness. But no such luck has ensued. This is just a drunken heads up/I'm fucking drunk/I'm bored/no one wants to be my friend tonight/meaningless post.
Yeah, so um, hi...... Most anyone on here that I care to inform of my happenings and daily routine already know of my going-ons of months past, so no need to get caught up really, right? Make a fucking phone call. Actually, come to think if it, I don't even know who's lurking and reading my business, so you should all fuck right off and skip over this. Leave me be dammit!
So anyway, without further ado (dun dun dun....) here's a recap of tonight! I played the Milkshakes at work and it immediately changed my mood and inspired me and made me want to have band practice. If you are unaware, I have a new band called the Minx. Our objective is to have as much fun as humanly possible and we've agreed that we will self destruct and break up if and when there is a moment that we cease to be passionate and having fun with it. We don't even want to play shows. We just want to love making music together and that is enough. And that is everything. Scotty made us a logo. I like logos. Logos are fun. This is our logo:
Anyway, later in the night I decided I was gonna be in a foul mood, I don't even remember why, but it seemed a wise decision at the time, like there was no other mood worth embracing. So I bought a bottle of 5 Star on my break and brought it home when I completed my duty. Erin decided sleep would be in her best interest. I disagreed, but then preceded with drinking by myself, which is one of my most dreaded things of life. I recognize that alcohol has control over my life and my decisions and 23 hours of my day are spent fighting cravings (the other hour is spent in deep hibernation), but I sincerely do despise drinking alone. Especially 3/4 a bottle of rum as I've done so far tonight. Actually, now that I am trying to make a rational thought, I'll probably just delete this post when I wake up and realize I've written a whole bunch of babble in my LJ and feel ashamed about doing so.
So, anyway, I was feeling useless cuz I've really been wasting away and not using my abilities to their fullest as of late. Melissa told me something today that made me smile hugely and feeling better about my petty attempts at making things more enjoyable for the masses. I mean, when's the last time I've done anything worth a fart? I sell fucking dildos for a living. I push fucking buttons. I advise women on how they can achieve better orgasms. I convince pathetic men that their small dicks are worth a shit. And when I'm not doing that (and some times while I am doing that), I'm destroying the liver that my doctor has already told me is deteriorating and ready to explode. I'm not supposed to be drinking at all, yet I find myself drinking heavier than I have in months past and feeling good about it. And I somehow justify to those who care the most about me that this is what I need to do, and they oblige.
Anyway. I haven't written in a long time and I needed a forum in which to do so, which is probably my pretense in writing what is soon to follow. Fuck, I'm getting tired, so I leave you with the following anecdote. Basically, I started writing a story with no plot, as I usually do. I intended to use this as part of a series of short stories that I'm gonna include in my new zine, The Pitt. The column is gonna be called Suite 16 (that name came to me in a dream and I'm sticking with it even if has nothing to do with a hotel or 16 year olds), and it'll be a 10+ part series, but each zine will just have a portion of the story that by itself will make sense, so you can start reading at any point, yet I will keep continuing them until the whole story is revealed and everyone says "Whoa!" in the end. Unfortunately, about 12 seconds into writing this piece, I completely lost track of what was going on and I wrote some kind of something that makes no sort of sense. Well I think it doesn't. I don't know. Maybe it does. And I have no clue how I can make ten volumes or more out of it being that I don't even know what I'm talking about or have a general consensus of what I'm narrating. So, yeah, tell me what you think. Should I continue on? Or should I just stop writing forever and never update this journal?
The room remains mostly silent with only the faint sound of quivers from underneath a thick pile of sheets. The newly risen sun shines bright beams of light forming prison bars on the opposing wall from a window in which minuscule gaps in the swaying blinds allow light to seep through and dance together in unison. A man lies fidgeting in the fetal position below several layers of covers on his cold, sweat-drenched bed. Veins nearly burst out of his arms as he clenches his fists and holds on for dear life. Unable to scream in agony or reach for a telephone to attempt refuge, tears begin to form at the base of his eyes. They roll down in streams of anguish, letting loose the torment of a lifetime of memories, confusions, misunderstandings, and unanswered questions. He’s lost track of time. It could be hours, or possibly weeks since he’s felt anything but heartache. But it doesn’t matter at this point. The only thing he understands is pain and that there is no escape because he hasn’t the power to move from where he currently resides. He’s comfortable. And that’s enough.
Yeah, so um, hi...... Most anyone on here that I care to inform of my happenings and daily routine already know of my going-ons of months past, so no need to get caught up really, right? Make a fucking phone call. Actually, come to think if it, I don't even know who's lurking and reading my business, so you should all fuck right off and skip over this. Leave me be dammit!
So anyway, without further ado (dun dun dun....) here's a recap of tonight! I played the Milkshakes at work and it immediately changed my mood and inspired me and made me want to have band practice. If you are unaware, I have a new band called the Minx. Our objective is to have as much fun as humanly possible and we've agreed that we will self destruct and break up if and when there is a moment that we cease to be passionate and having fun with it. We don't even want to play shows. We just want to love making music together and that is enough. And that is everything. Scotty made us a logo. I like logos. Logos are fun. This is our logo:
Anyway, later in the night I decided I was gonna be in a foul mood, I don't even remember why, but it seemed a wise decision at the time, like there was no other mood worth embracing. So I bought a bottle of 5 Star on my break and brought it home when I completed my duty. Erin decided sleep would be in her best interest. I disagreed, but then preceded with drinking by myself, which is one of my most dreaded things of life. I recognize that alcohol has control over my life and my decisions and 23 hours of my day are spent fighting cravings (the other hour is spent in deep hibernation), but I sincerely do despise drinking alone. Especially 3/4 a bottle of rum as I've done so far tonight. Actually, now that I am trying to make a rational thought, I'll probably just delete this post when I wake up and realize I've written a whole bunch of babble in my LJ and feel ashamed about doing so.
So, anyway, I was feeling useless cuz I've really been wasting away and not using my abilities to their fullest as of late. Melissa told me something today that made me smile hugely and feeling better about my petty attempts at making things more enjoyable for the masses. I mean, when's the last time I've done anything worth a fart? I sell fucking dildos for a living. I push fucking buttons. I advise women on how they can achieve better orgasms. I convince pathetic men that their small dicks are worth a shit. And when I'm not doing that (and some times while I am doing that), I'm destroying the liver that my doctor has already told me is deteriorating and ready to explode. I'm not supposed to be drinking at all, yet I find myself drinking heavier than I have in months past and feeling good about it. And I somehow justify to those who care the most about me that this is what I need to do, and they oblige.
Anyway. I haven't written in a long time and I needed a forum in which to do so, which is probably my pretense in writing what is soon to follow. Fuck, I'm getting tired, so I leave you with the following anecdote. Basically, I started writing a story with no plot, as I usually do. I intended to use this as part of a series of short stories that I'm gonna include in my new zine, The Pitt. The column is gonna be called Suite 16 (that name came to me in a dream and I'm sticking with it even if has nothing to do with a hotel or 16 year olds), and it'll be a 10+ part series, but each zine will just have a portion of the story that by itself will make sense, so you can start reading at any point, yet I will keep continuing them until the whole story is revealed and everyone says "Whoa!" in the end. Unfortunately, about 12 seconds into writing this piece, I completely lost track of what was going on and I wrote some kind of something that makes no sort of sense. Well I think it doesn't. I don't know. Maybe it does. And I have no clue how I can make ten volumes or more out of it being that I don't even know what I'm talking about or have a general consensus of what I'm narrating. So, yeah, tell me what you think. Should I continue on? Or should I just stop writing forever and never update this journal?
The room remains mostly silent with only the faint sound of quivers from underneath a thick pile of sheets. The newly risen sun shines bright beams of light forming prison bars on the opposing wall from a window in which minuscule gaps in the swaying blinds allow light to seep through and dance together in unison. A man lies fidgeting in the fetal position below several layers of covers on his cold, sweat-drenched bed. Veins nearly burst out of his arms as he clenches his fists and holds on for dear life. Unable to scream in agony or reach for a telephone to attempt refuge, tears begin to form at the base of his eyes. They roll down in streams of anguish, letting loose the torment of a lifetime of memories, confusions, misunderstandings, and unanswered questions. He’s lost track of time. It could be hours, or possibly weeks since he’s felt anything but heartache. But it doesn’t matter at this point. The only thing he understands is pain and that there is no escape because he hasn’t the power to move from where he currently resides. He’s comfortable. And that’s enough.