Stolen Notes From the Underground

Introduction. “Simple violence”

You don’t have to tell me, I know that our conversations are stale and practically tasteless, but if you’re trying to go to sleep, or you’re about to get your tooth pulled out, then this will help. It’s better than any sleeping aid, or anesthetic, or even if you’re on the verge for a little taste of some sick suicide, I’ll help in anyway. To numb the essence existence of your common routine, does that mean that this will make even your intervals of life dull? I don’t know. I’m just here to rant and key. To have plenty of time and be full of good bier can be dangerous to the surroundings, almost the humorist reason to become a familiar foe. Because this is just a character that I document for the masses, it’s not a personality, it’s meant to be taken out of context, because a personality is…well, personal. And I’ll keep that out of this screen.
But don’t alarm yourself, unless you‘re taking all this shit seriously.

Fuck it, do it.
Drive fast and take chances.
Follow a taxi and shoot imaginary bullets at it, while making fart noises that sound menacing, it would even be better if that taxi was going to LAX, but it would be…badass if you would blow up LAX. Never mind. What im trying to say is that a uhh. Fuck. If you think that death for no reason is murder than…it is. But I believe in simple violence too, and this is some of it. Besides we can just shrug it away, its all an inside joke, its only a distraction, its fiction…its fuck, muck.


From a Composition Book:
This Use to Belong To a Thief
(but its mine now)
By: someone else


ONE: a yellow belly drunk

Although I may have compared myself to a yellow mouse in the past, I’m not completely a coward.
Well I am, I know, but I’m letting you know that my coward-ness isn’t, let’s say, fully true.
Let me try to explain, and you, you just keep reading, or don’t bother turning the page, the rest of this notebook doesn’t get better than the first line here. But back to me defending the sick coward-ness that haunts. See Im not really a coward at heart, only when it comes to action. Oh what a trite and pathetic excuse! I know. ’Oh look at the author, see how sensitive he is, look how he’s not afraid to feel and how he gulps, as if his important work depends on it’, yeah that’s what you’re thinking huh? I know my shit (feces) is more beautiful than I am talented. I should have my hands chopped off, so I won’t be able to pick up a pen, or any type of writing device.
But I digress, again. I have not fully morphed into any kind of rodent yet. For I have no tail, still I am fuzzy, but that’s beside the point. I can be as brave as a big-chest-hairy Mexican holding a knife in one hand and tequila in the other. I really could be, because I’ve thought about it before, one time on my way to score an eight ball right here in Lennox. So I know I can be brave, and you know because I’ve told you just now. I’m so brave that I confess my coward-ness without shame. And that means more than any brave thing I would possibly consider doing. You know why? I’ll explain again, see at this moment I am sober, but this morning around 7am and then again at 11something, I was ill, in the stomach and inside my head. There was familiar agony and dryness. Because the night before, last night, I threw up, I vomited, I retched, and I heaved out in the drive way under a car. See I dropped my bottle of wine and it was full. Well, I lie, it was half full, (its good to be positive, so that’s what Im trying to do). My bottle of wine was half full and it rolled under a car, so I dove under to get it. I crawled on the oily pavement, because of my reckless passion for the Port. I was stuck under the dark car reaching, and searching but it must have rolled back out. Then I let go, it splashed back at my face, me being so close to the ground, my face was covered in my own vomit.
Oh stop me, haven’t we heard this story before, I think so, yes I’m sure I’ve told this story already. Wait, no, impossible it just happened last night.
So by now we should all understand my coward-ness, and its not common ordinary coward-ness. There is nothing dull about it, believe me, because many nights I’ve cursed and manifested my self-loathing due to my infecting fear. So many nights, drunken and hollow nights, I ran the corners of the room, along the bottom walls. I was fast, maybe not as fast as an authentic mouse, but you get it. And I guess the origin of my coward-ness must obviously come from my desires, they barely counts as desires. Oh those desires, I mean, if you can even call them ‘desires’, the only reason I label them as desires is because I have not yet been satisfied. Just because I know myself, and im not a reasonable person. I cant be reasonable nor logical, and that’s why I desire then suffer. I don’t wish these thoughts on me, but they creep without warning. Aim low and you’ll only be hurt a little, the distance won’t be that great, but when expecting more and aiming high the fall might kill.
It’s impossible for me to be reasonable and want what will satisfy. Is that hard to understand? Is it wrong at all? I expect an answer.

TWO: ego balls

Tell me, am I a terrible friend? Am I even a friend? You know me, at least, well enough, and if you don’t then well for us both. Because I am the worst. I’m a fucking asshole, but im soft spoken and weak, except when im intoxicated and happy for odd reasons. Yes, yes…yes, Okay, im terrible, but I’m still great, yeah I’m a great guy too. But don’t laugh at my contradictions, not yet, because you don’t understand. So keep your mouth shut for im not trying to be funny at all, I’m only trying to tell you (hold on let me pour a drink).
Alright. I’m just trying to let you know something and whatever that something is I’m sure it’s very important. Because I will make it seem so important, since I am the writer, and of course the writer is the most important person in the world, everyone knows that, so everything I write must be…I mean I make my flaws and mistakes seem…more…more…Goddamn I can’t even explain! Maybe im not the writer, just because Im narcissistic and lonesome and I write on composition books, does that make me a writer? Yes, for the sole reason that I’m lonely and full of myself. I guess I have to write, making ordinary thoughts extra-ordinary, seeming to be sensitive or thoughtful, and thinking I am deep and witty. Because ink and paper is like…is like…ink and paper can do the impossible.
But I know im nowhere near witty deepness. Look I’m all over the place, changing the subject for no acceptable reason. So what that I am the greatest writer of the 21st Century. Big fucking deal. Who cares that I’m the cleverest and artistic unpublished writer here. So do you know how lucky you are? Yeah I’m sure you do, you have to know. This immortal masterpiece can’t go un-notice. Let me go fix me another drink while you marvel and admire this ink.
Alright. You know what? After gulping my poor mix drink, I realize and admit. I’m a liar, a phony and again I am a bad (bad? Is that ok for me to use the word ‘bad’, well why not? Ask that German) I am a bad person, should I explain my case? I guess I have to, or else it would be almost pointless for my obvious statement. So I should make a list of all the ’bad’ characteristics that posses me right? But that is not my motive, im not going to get drunk and belittle myself, nor prove that I am what I claim I be. For the simple reason that well you’re no one to convince. And who are you anyway? How did you get to be in this weird place reading these pages, these pages that will distort your view of me? And who am I? Well good thing I asked, or else you wouldn’t know that I am a friend. Your friend.
And as your friend I feel it’s my duty to let you in. I am poor and humble and half-drunk. And with nothing to offer, but my honesty, my faithful and concrete loyalty, and my un-measurable companionship. Take it all, for I am scum next to you, and grateful to be such a friend of yours, I am grateful scum. Because I am not so lonely or self-righteous when we celebrate us.
Stop it! Don’t laugh at me and my contradictions, I am not laughing, you know I do not want to be funny now. But maybe it’s all beyond my control, perhaps I am here to be mocked, if that is the case then I really need you, I can’t be without you, because you are the one that mocks. Like an asshole and a dick, we’re perfect for each other, we are tight like this. We’ll decide who is the asshole and the dick later. Now I’ll try to explain, to myself as well, I need to understand too. We be friends right?
So tell me.
Well why I don’t tell you, since I already have this pen in my hand. Might as well no?
You fucking biTch! U Cunt! Haa HA! I joke my friend, now lets laugh. I kid. I am trying to be funny now, by insulting you. Because I cant speak of our relationship, I cant mention our unspoken truth. I have failed you. All because I’m not one to deal with the reality between us. I am fake again, my words are empty and meaningless. Maybe, I have deceived you. I just cant bring myself to merely utter any real shit. Oh how sick do we feel now? The least I can do is…
What?
Say sorry..? Fuck. That would change everything right?
I’m not so a great writer to bring tone to my lines, can you imagine hearing my voice as you read this?
And what if I place my hand on your thigh, not only that but I squeezed it, and slide my hand up to your center, you know your center. Would you like that? Never mind that, there are no “what if’s” in these pages, that’s just not my style. I’m not one to ponder over “what if’s.” because really wouldn’t that be useless and uncomfortable. Alright. I’ll stop, I’ll stop.
But seriously. Im being serious now, can’t you tell?
Remember earlier when I said I was trying to be funny? No? just flip back some pages, its there I know. I was trying to make a joke, so obviously I didn’t try so hard. But I felt it was just, me not trying so hard.
(let me finish my drink, I’ll go visit you now, and I’ll continue this later)
Alright, so I’m back a few hours later. After only drinking half a 750ml bottle of tequila and smoking a cigarette and a half. I am here again, back to you my friend. So I guess I’m somewhat loyal right? But now I’m drunk, yes, drunk indeed and mighty high, trying to keep the cool calm class of the writer, but I’m giving up. I’m not excused to be nasty and vulgar; I can not help myself, its second nature that lives thru me. Oh no, must I be vile and abusive. No. no I can’t. You don’t deserve it. Because im not drunk to a point that im not able to control myself. I know when to stop before things get ugly, even more so.
So dear friend, before I print anything that I might regret and not forget, I say “later”, I’ll see you some other day.

THREE: combo #9

Oh why I picked bad week to stop drinking. I couldn’t even make it through two days. I know what a sickness. But I was shamefully convinced, I had a problem, I still do. I just poured another drink, bourbon and coke. But I don’t want to continue this, let me tell you about something completely different, it’s secret and terrible, and it has nothing to do with me. Almost. Its about romantic obsession, fantasy and luv. Yeah, it was a horrible moment in time, a long moment for everyone, at least I felt so. It started with someone walking, ok, I was that someone. I walked everywhere I wanted to and anywhere I needed to. Why? Well because I had to. And I was tired, physically and fuck my legs and feet, just tired. The days were long and hot, and I was in no shape to continue this type of transportation. I decided to get a car, any car to make things faster and more convenient, and my legs were murdering me. There were times I’d carry a back pack full of booze, it must have been about 500lbs, or 20 pounds, and I’d walk about twenty miles, or two miles. So yeah, I needed a car to get around. I figured I needed to look for a job, shit; I didn’t have any money, well just enough for my weekend vice. And my dog knew I wasn’t going to stop drinking or getting high to save some cash. So after some phone calls I’m taking a drug test, I pissed in a cup and the results-negative. The shift was from 6pm to two am. I sat in a chair, of course it was no sofa or anything, and I separated ATM checks from their envelopes in two separate stacks. To my left and right were more chairs, with a bunch of weirdoes sitting on ’em. For instance there was Dennis, an old white man with long white hair in a ponytail. He claimed to be an ex-hippy that never used condoms. And what grown man is named Dennis? But I’ll tell you about my co-workers later. So after a couple of weeks I had my first car, I owned that machine. For 500 dollars, I drove a red 91’ Corolla, Oh Yeah, I was almost proud of it all, almost because as long as it drove, it could have been a Volvo or a BMW, I was satisfied. I no longer had to walk anywhere, I was 18 years old, and I had a three year advantage to practice drunk driving. So weeks later, maybe 3, Arnett sat next to me. She wasn’t so weird, except for her being from the Philippines, and she listened to Oasis. But now that I think about it doesn’t seem so weird, well actually she was, for some reason she was into me, not sure why, maybe it was my check separating skills. I’d do about 500 in 13 minutes, believe me that is fast. So somehow we end up on the roof, I built tension by hesitation, because I was tremendously shy. Yes I was morbidly shy, my pussy-coward-ness always got the best of me, (whatever that means), when I was sober and the time called for action. How sad, because liquor to me was like that green weed to Popeye. And that night I did nothing, she drew stars on my converse and I played some Velvet Underground in my car for her. But the following times we met, during lunch, break, and sometimes we’d sneak out, and then I was prepared. I had a half-pint in my jacket right next to the mint gum, because I shouldn’t be smelling like whiskey at work. So after my secret sips from the bottle, Arnett and I kissed liked horny teen-agers. I had no problem inciting, of course it had to be me, she wasn’t an American girl and she was more timid than I was. Too bad she didn’t drink. So whatever, we fucked around for a couple of weeks, maybe 3. Just until I saw another girl, she was also from the Philippines, but she was a lot more attractive, (I know, how shallow, but that’s the least of problems and drawbacks of the character I’ve created to be). Although this other girl worked in a different department, the Data Entry Dept. I had to meet her, so I focus on my work, I stopped drinking at the job and quit fooling around with Arnett. She wrote me a letter explaining how she was sad and wanted to leave her house, she said she felt like a prisoner and she actually liked me. A lot of sentimental bullshit. But I wanted to know that girls name, the Data Entry girl. A couple weeks later, maybe 3, I was promoted. Oh yes, yours truly was acknowledge by the freak weird supervisors. I was then a part of the Data Entry Dept. I had to key in the last four digits of the ATM checks, remember the checks I use to separate? In front of a computer for about eight hours, yeah, it was dreadful and boring, but I could have done almost anything just to meet this Filipina. I started waiting for her outside after work, I parked my red Toyota across the street, it was after two am, and I was getting high from weak weed and beginning to really feel for this girl. And every night around 2:15 am, a black SUV would drive up to pick her up. Oh but I’m starting to blush from shame and embarrassment. I’m having second thoughts about printing my disturbed and psychotic experience. How humiliating. Yeah, I could feel my cheeks turn red just remembering. And I doubt if I should document the uncommon luv. Luv? Lust! And delusion thoughts of an 18 year old kid. There is a mental-gut feeling that I shouldn’t ink. Not again, ever. Everything is disorder. What a massive word, no? Disorder! Chaos. Ok, a mild chaos. I should rob a bank, I’ll be the best bank robber to come out of LA. I should refrain from the word, you know they don’t make them like they use to. Ahh who am I jerking-off? My pet plants know I’m too dumb to rob a bank, well I could probably rob it, but shit I couldn’t get away with it. Maybe I could rub it, (Ehh fuck it! Neither muscles nor wit here). Who the fuck wants to rub a bank any way? Or against it? I don’t know anything. I don’t want to. I barely depend on a full cold glass of Turkey, now it’s my third, and these last gulps make my skin shiver. I know I shouldn’t be drinking, what a shit-whore week its been. I sense I’m drinking for the wrong reason, because I’m a little confused. After half a bottle of 101 Turkey I feel…you know…drunk and joyful. But not now. Well I’m sure you don’t know, but I do. God damn me, I’m ill. I’m pouring to forget and spilling in out of anger. Can’t I be a normal person? Why am I trying to get wasted on Monday? Who am I asking? For only I know the answer. And the answer is that tapping the head of my penis as if I was sending a long essay through telegraph will clear things out. But No. of course that’s not the answer. Alright now, I just finished my drink, so I’ll quit drinking next week, right after I begin exercising, yeah I’ll start working out, sit-ups, push-ups, jogging 20 miles and eating healthy. Oh yeah sure. And by the way, that Filipina that worked in the Data Entry Dept. all those years ago, she was married and 24. I found that out through Dennis, remember him. In fact one night after work, I went up to her and asked her if she needs a ride, she said “No” obviously. I shrugged it away and walked out the building. I saw that black SUV pull up, I peeked inside like it was the normal thing to do. I couldn’t see shit. Then I smoked a bowl and went to McDonalds at 2:30 am. After slowly driving away from the drive -thru, I parked in the lot, under bright Rosecrans lights. I dug through the bag and asked my own face in the rear-view mirror, “where are my chicken nuggets?” that’s how that whole thing ended.

FOUR

Stop pretending you’re on my side.
Why?
Because I cannot contain it anymore.
What?
I’m nervous and I keep touching this bump on my eyebrow, and im resentful too and drunk and its about to spill out of me. I want to be kind to my fellow brothers and friends, to annoying drunks and stupid children and pets. But it just gets more difficult as we go on. So stop being condescending, its fucking insulting and it gives me heart burn. I know your roots of brotherhood sprout from anger. You dislike us very much, I mean you and myself. But I don’t blame you, because I know my shirt buttons and my socks and my personality. As appose to the character I present to you through these words. And if you were me…oh man, “dislike” would be a gentle insult. Nearly do I ask for any sort of help or side orders or subs, help with subs, shove aside sympathy and pity gestures or meals, but true proactive help from anyone. Help from you, but you are the setting, the environment. You are everything. You’re even my mix of Turkey and coke with ice, and so supportive is my drink, more than bras and parents, and my drink, oh my mighty, it encourages me to build and practice a peculiar tolerance, which is asked for in whispers, or if already stimulated, I might growl at the bartender, in this case I am the barkeep. I might be a drunkard, but I’ll never be a bartender, but that’s no here nor there, but it is really here, you know? So with drinks of companionship I wheeze thru days, in fumes, carrying burned organs, with a neurotic and jittery head of betrayal. Shit, I wouldn’t even trust myself, but that’s because I don’t shave my mustache. BASTARDS! Oh no, im starting again, I don’t really mean it, well…I do, but maybe not the exclamation point and the capital letters. But us bastards, that search for refuge through pipes and flat surfaces with mirror reflections. It’s no surprise really why we’re all drunk half the day. But im lost, where is my reason. I have no reason, I can’t be both. I yet suffer for the desires. I should be locked away, in time out. Grounded with my head bowed against the cornered wall, away from society. No, why me? Don’t listen to me. Its humanity that should be put to sleep, I no longer feel human, no instincts, but only sexual urges. But I would like to meet someone who is not driven by these urges; I would also like to meet a supreme being that knows how to dance.
It’s the 21st century and it’s almost midnight…just thought I should mention, one should be very careful with what is done with all this important info.
But what im trying to say is that once one does certain drugs and reads certain books that well…alright maybe this can wash our dirty yet clean view we share thru this windshield of a weary world, whatever that means.
Riding the bus, I see boys and girls of my generation, young folk you know. But I see cardboard robots fixated on their gadgets. No eye contact (not that I expect it or want it), but if there is some, it’s some cunt with a mad-dogging face, or a bitch with a bitch stare. And I feel out of place.
I shouldn’t ride the bus.
But how shall I get to work?
Oh then I shouldn’t work.
But how will I get money?
Damn I don’t need money.
How will I take care of my vice and support my drinking?
Oh but I don’t really need drugs or liquor.
But then how will I face the world outside my door?
AAH Fuck the world right up its nostril.
NO. No. now im just being silly.
Then the other group of people on the bus is the ‘old people’. But what can I say about them, they sleep throughout the ride. They are old and tired; they are slowly evaporating from this earth. Yet I can’t just ignore them, I study them as well, just as I do the young. Because there is plenty of entertaining ideas I create just looking around. How can I be a part of this race? Well that’s easy to answer.
Hey no good answer comes easy. (Unless it’s mine) you hear?
It’s my heart, it burns. Buts it’s a great thing, my heart, not the burning. It’s hidden between me, pumping, bumping a beat. The second most musical part of my body. Sharing the blood, spreading it all around, helping me, and keeping me alive. Well that’s too much praise, actually that’s the most I can give credit to the heart. Because in all honesty, I know very little of it. Besides my right and left atrium, and my left and right ventricle, and that harmless murmur I’ve had since birth. But that’s common knowledge, except for the murmur, I was told about that. So really what else can I say about this organ, other than it makes the worst possible decisions ever. And it’s me, who has to deal with the consequences.
Because I didn’t get any letters, no e-mails, no messages, nor memos. I didn’t take part in any vote. I wasn’t even taken in consideration, why didn’t this bane heart ask before making any fucking choices? It should have come to me before making any sudden moves, before it leapt into surprising feelings. Oh heart, burning heart, I implore you to cease me from this damaging undertow of emotions.
Well that’s it. That’s as queer and bridle as I get.
HAA! Just imagine me and true emotions, they must be true or else my mind is playing sick tricks on me. But let’s leave the mind out of this, but it’s obviously impossible, for it is me that is printing this.
Someone, once wrote me a message, it was a girl at work with beautiful hands and a sexy mouth, so I took her words even more personal. Another classic mistake. The message was “humans rot,” or “emotions rust” or “eat more fruits.” or something like that. I had no clue what she was trying to say. Only because I was in some kind of love, oK. Ok. I joke, maybe not love, maybe not the one society is use to, but no kind of love is better than others. And where there is laughter and love, Bill Hicks is there along with Dostoevsky and Garcia Marquez, even Bandini and we know his tragic tales of love. So if we don’t want to see it as love then it was some mind consuming blinding emotion that prevented me from all reason and ordinary sense. Well isn’t that love? I didn’t know what she meant then when she wrote, “eat more fruits before they rot.” but that was then, and now I almost understand because I felt that love constant, but it didn’t really grow nor get old, nor did it rust or rot, well there really hasn’t been any rain. But needless to say I felt it morph and change. It became something different, though the origin was pure weird-mind-consuming-emotion that held me from being logical and rational. Yet, it didn’t bother me at all, it didn’t make me walk funny, my anus wasn’t itchy at all, and it didn’t make my shaft sour nor burned when I pissed unlike last time. I was passionate and full of temptation. So I didn’t care for being neither logical nor smart. I didn’t care for any of that bullshit; all I wanted was to feel good, well you know the normal things a young man wants, beyond fucking, beyond oranges and seedless grapes. Even if I remained an idiot, I felt human for an instant.
Alright, but I guess I should stop, because I know that my heart doesn’t deserve the entire blame. It was her, she proposed all the reason, still she is a woman, crazy and charming. So who knows what the fuck goes on in her mind? So I’ll quit now to be without judgment.
But I can at least try to defend my mutated feelings that I once claimed to be love, or “mind consuming blinding emotions that prevented me from all reason and logical sense.” whatever it was I can justify it, but let me pour me another drink first.
For it is a trademark of mine, to be so coward-like, and then get drunk to avoid everything. I want everything to come to me, but I’ll only take what I need. I’ll keep quiet, the best decision I can make for us all.

FIVE

Here I am again, weakly, crawling out from the bowels of the bottle. Because I am the writer, and I am drunk. And…I want to survive, for some reason I’m not sure of. And to-morrow is payday. At this moment I am fooled by my drunken thought, ‘I am immortal’ really, if only I had some coke. Oh what? Whats the shit? Am I being too honest? Well if I am, give credit to the bourbon.
There is this thing I like, speaking of Wild honest Turkey, there is this thing I like being done to my ear that makes me feel fucking good, so good, specially coke-out.
I hear you scoff at me, reading me like I’m a fucking fuzzy rodent. Well me aint, cuz I’m drunk, and it’s impossible to be a drunken yellow mouse, right? I mean, think about it.
No, I mean, what im trying to say is that in the old days, I mean, around the 18th and 19th century the bearded man would always get the most beautiful woman in the city. But now the city is overly populated. Everything is fucking useless, but let’s try to be positive, it’s the end of the weak.

SIX

I just can’t seem to quit, I’m not fooling anyone, but I keep insisting. And for that I am ashamed, guess I was wrong, what a surprise right? I really don’t know when to stop. I also don’t know how to forget, & because I can’t, I can’t forgive. We’re all guilty, we have our faults. I remember, and I’ve become addicted to remembering, such painful memories which I can’t get over.
I walked that whore home, each step right next to her, at six in the morning. When it was cold as shit outside, I even let her wear my jacket. And once in a while at the stop light, while I pushed the button, she’d lean in close and smile, and I, the hexed idiot, I smiled back, like I should. With the stupid boyish smug smirk, but in the most honest of words, I did mean to smile, to squint my eyes and bend my lips while we waited for the light to turn green.
Goddamn I just can’t forget, and I am full of shame, because I thought about her after she walked into her house, I walked back home right after the sun rise, wondering about her, that whore, such a universe I knew nothing about. I walked my stupid feet back home, to jerk-off in the bathroom, keeping in mind her soft skin and her wide hips. Oh shit, how could I’ve been so devoted to that damn whore? Now I’m just another number when I remember. And I can’t rid of this cursed shame I wear with humiliation. How can I forgive myself after all these years? What a stupid scrawny boy I was, what cruel memories. The sun climbed over the east of Imperial for another morning.
I also remember thinking ‘fuck, im lucky’ looking at her wearing my jacket. The sun burned my eyes but I still tried to make her laugh. How easy was I, worthless, walking that whore back to her house?
Why can’t I forget that morning? I don’t know maybe cuz I ain’t healthy no more, maybe cuz I hardly walk anywhere, maybe cuz I liked her, maybe cuz she kept my jacket. I don’t know.
But this shame is overwhelming, let me explain a little. This morning I woke up sick, I mean, the sickness woke me up and I called in sick to work, well that didn’t make me feel any better, nor was I ashamed. But I mechanically thought of my father, if he only knew, he would be disappointed, he too would feel shame. “What kind of son did I raise?” he will ask himself. “The kind of son that doesn’t go to work because he drank too much the night before.” then he would blame himself, it would be all his fault, for he is an alcoholic, it should be easy for him.
“How come you don’t go to work?”
Well, I have enough fucking money, I got too much money, and that’s not easy to face for some one of my intelligence.
“How come you’re not going to school?”
Well I’m already too smart, you know I don’t want to be a wizard, I smell bad enough.
“How come you don’t shower and clean yourself?”
Well, I’ve taken plenty of showers in the last ten years.
I’m being silly now, you say, ehh? How silly am I being? So silly I slouch in my seat and command you to takes this seriously.

SEVEN

I am done teasing, at least I’m hoping to. I’ve been a coward, and a phony. I’ve been silly and rude, plenty of reasons to make this the last entry. But who cares really? Can I be any more self-degrading? I’m pretty sure I can. Well I don’t know. I’ve been so down in the mouth, I doubt everything. Such typical mannerisms. I doubt I’m even a man, doubt I’m human and alive. But im not sure if I’m actually doubting. Those are vast thoughts with little doubt. I question my health, and all the minor things. Everything is a mess, don’t you see>? < How could you not be down in the mouth? How could you not try to get drunk every chance you get? How could you not hit the pipe when they are available? I don’t know. How do you go on each day, what do you know? I bet it’s an inside joke or something like that, still I don’t get it. But by now you should know my stale and disappointing humor. And that makes me not function properly, it’s that esoteric antic that creeps into my room each morning, it crawls up to my bed and gently slithers its self inside me somehow, maybe thru my anal cavity most likely, my spiritual asshole. Then it’s down in the mouth. What a joke right? You must have heard it before, the joke, at least felt it. Sensed it in your head, heavy in your belly, and so uncomfortable in your pockets. Who is telling this joke? It’s awful, and it’s just not funny anymore. Well that’s the same joke and emotion I swallow with my cheap tequila. It seems to go in along with the ice, and like the liquor I taste it less but feel it more. That emotion, it wines down after a couple of drinks. And after a whole bottle, that feeling is gone; I am empty, because I’ve probably already passed out. That feeling also disappears when I play and softly grip a girl’s hair, how strange, who knew a girl’s hair had such abilities? When I pull it and smell it, bury my face into it, I forget, I become numb of that joke and feeling, that hair thing is only affective when she has me in her mouth. And that same down in the mouth joke quickly hides when I bust a long thick white worm of blow, but just for a short time. It always comes limping back to me, as I crash. Butt fuck that joke, it’s a really gloomy fear. Let’s talk of good things, well let me ink about good things and you’ll read ‘em… Oh God, I just realized what I’ve done, fUck, just pretend this never happened and you never read any of this.