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| Late last night, i peed all over my toilet. I woke at about three having gulped down a couple of cups of tea at about ten. The erection was refusing to let the urine flow, but i should have known to sit down. And my bathroom is dirty enough as it is.
Anyway, this is my list for when i go to Walgreen's:
Sponges
Gloves
Trash bags
Toilet scrubber
And something else.
Maybe i should pick up condoms while i'm there. I have been meaning to. But it's always the non-sequitor: "Yes, can i get some rat traps, a can of raid, and...Let's see, how about the thin kind." I'm sure people buy condoms all the time. From girls. Disclaimer: "I'm not really using these things on another human. I just don't want to get my pillow pregnant." Ho-ho! "Yes, these Zingers and a bottle of KY--I heard they improved their formula!"
A macho man knows. His sexuality is this mouse in a trap. It's a live-trap so the mouse can scurry around and the macho man can watch. But when a macho man goes to get cleaning supplies, he buys cleaning supplies and that's it. "I'm not a pervert, i do it dry," he says to the cashier.
"What?" she says, but he's busy unfolding bills from a fat wad of cash.
The macho man, of course, has a wife and kids at home. He doesn't live alone. And etc. What a wide channel the young man must swim to get to straight-laced adulthood where everything is a compartment and dad fixes the lawn-mower.
I don't know. I will probably never get married. I'll probably always wake up with a hard-on full of tea and piss all over the toilet. And then, in the morning, once the pee-smell saturates the area around the toilet, i'll write about how i might do something about it. Meanwhile, the music on the stereo curls up like a lost cat and purrs gently.
Something will change. And it will probably be me. I will have a profilactic purpose for condoms and buying them won't just be a gentle embarassment for me, an idol to my self-imposed autonomy, a story about a red-riding hood in which nothing goes wrong. It will carry meaning and attachment, and hopefully, love. | | |
| Macrobiotics was wrong about alot.
These lousy pens i have work for like a week, but they're free.
I may never read a grammar/punctuation book in my life. Then again, i might have to if i'm going to be an editor.
I'm lucky in two ways: I never lose lighters, and i never lose pens.
In another way, i never forget anything when i go to school, but i always FEEL like i've forgotten something. Also, i'm often afraid that i smell bad or i'm going to fart in class.
The pea is still in my ass.
So far, it's nighttime.
The music on the stereo is a bit like a soft rain in Spring, the kind you can't quite hear.
On a related note, i wrote too much about nothing because i just needed to say something. My friend now has to read it. I will call him tomorrow to profess how much i miss him.
If you must know, mom wasn't around to take my call today. Guess that's because she's busy sleeping.
Tomorrow, i have science to work on.
One of the questions was, "What would you do with a million dollars?" I said it would be the earning of it that would be important to me.
My music is loud, but my neighbor has yet to knock on my door.
I just read about this band in the New Yorker. My dad got me a subscription as a birthday present. Dads, huh.
My dad's pretty cool. I just sent him a love letter.
My friend's father said, "Why, you're a man now." My father never said that. Not that it matters. We were just eating Chinese together.
My uncle is in a wheelchair or something. I don't really know, but i hope i don't end up like him. After all, he is my dad's younger brother, and i am my older brother's younger brother. And i smoke.
We laughed about how i'd be old and still smoking. He said he's steal stuff from my attic. I'd have too much tar in my lungs to chase him. The struggle would reduce me to lighting up another cigarette. We all can't live forever, but i still think i will give up smoking soon.
The Mona Lisa lived forever.
Wow, i just realized i'm right in the middle of the book. That's not important.
I should really write a paper or something.
I remember mom wouldn't let me live with her. I thought i'd blossom beneath her order.
Today i thought i really wanted to take my clothes off for my neighbor--as long as he was painting around my window, you understand.
The thing about getting naked in front of a married man is that we're all adults here for god's sake. The thing about getting naked in front of his wife is creepy. I don't know which weighs more.
Mom says we write from our head, not from experience. "Do you know how painful it is, mom, to be so alone? Never question a poet, mom. Never.
"Just kidding, mom." | | |
| I don't know what to do now. I could read the book or clean the shit from my ass, smoke or listen to another record, masturbate or take a shower or read my friend's blog and wish i was her.
Some dog, a little black pug, snoops around outside while my neighbor scrapes the peeling paint from the stone foundation of the house. Right now, he's above the window on the West side of the house, scraping. Izzy is the dog's name and he's just been issued a cautionary call from his master.
I will smoke now.
Now i will smoke again...
This compacted colon, this shit caught on the inside of my rectum has been stuck there for two days. I'm guessing i need to fish it out so i don't get 'the cancer' or eat a hell of alot of fiber and hope for a smooth move tomorrow morning.
I have the tea that makes you poop. My mom sent it to me at the beginning when the meds were fucking me all up. My doctor even prescribed me some medicine for my bowels: Colase? I never took it.
I used to shit huge horse poops when i was eating right. Now i'm lucky to eat two times a day, and then, less often, with enough fiber to clean me out.
Brown basmati rice is in the fridge. It has been there for almost two weeks. I tried to cook it up with some canned black beans for a burrito filling, but i left that out too long and had to pitch it.
I don't eat bacon, i hardly eat red meat, I'm starving, and piece of shit is stuck to the wall of my colon like a sucker fish on the side of an aquarium. I wiped so many times this morning that i bled.
I remember i applied to work as a dog groomer the summer before my first year of college. The owner showed me how important it is to squeeze the last bit of shit out of the rectum of a pet in order to groom it properly. He was a stern, pear-shaped older man who had served in one war or another. I showed him my arms as proof i wasn't on heroin and he never called me back. I guess that was the beginning of living in the real world.
I put on my pretenses, though. This kind of disquisition is proof that i don't quite commune with the real world on a regular basis. Working as a valet was as close as i ever got. Surprised i have very little advice? It's because i have nothing to go on. Just my shit and its incorrigible will to stay inside my body like a stone stuck in mud; me, the princess and the pea.
Oh well, life goes on. I guess my neighbor is done working on the house. I need to read or shower, or smoke and study. And i swear i'll get back to the real world once this profligate epoch ends. I will be ready to be reproved by the war veteran that plucks poop from the assholes of mutts, and i'll have fun. | | |
| Yesterday, i spent all day watching porn, bathing and studying. At its climax, around 10:30 pm, Saturday night, I closed the book and watched a few sitcoms on the net. Afterwards, I couldn't get to sleep because i had so much more to do and my mind wouldn't quit quaking with questions, theses, and theories.
I awoke this morning, ball-bearing eyes rolled back, my lids closing on them continually until i finally sat up. Smoked. Some radio interference.
I understand why i couldn't sleep last night; today i have a myriad of things to accomplish: Get money from Andy (social security--he's my payee), buy smokes, get change for laundry, do laundry, read about 150 new pages from separate books, write a paper for my Journ. 1010 class.
Drink coffee. Sit. That's how i'm beginning.
Wait. Spit at the thick cement walls of the higher education system with verbs and words that neither matter nor operate autonomously of me. And by "matter", i mean "aren't graded; don't count towards a degree." Obviously, you know what "autonomous of me" is--a term paper, i suggest. Just stuff based on books.
So. Cigarettes and coffee. Hooray for me!
Jung is heavy stuff to read, what i mean by "climax". Dark, thorough territory, that. Don't care, really. Just more words. And an ineluctable transposition of thought, what i mean by "thick cement walls of the higher education system." Let me intersperse your words with a few of mine, what i mean by "spitting", I say to Jung.
The walls are so wet now. Wet cement. Glistening white/off-white. Encroaching. Like that scene in Star Wars.
I guess i have time--at least, i'm making it. For you. Or trying to. Or tying to, depending on what you feel about the unabridged dictionary and metaphorical penises of the mind. I'm not keen on them. But this is how it gets so wet, and the walls approaching, syzygy of similarity. Impossible.
I seriously put one foot out, then back in again.
Have i told you about the odor of rancid graham crackers in my kitchen? No? Well, there's sugar all over my table and mice might find it. Scurrying little white mice. I'm determined to leave it this way.
I put one foot out, don't know how to begin again.
Man, i do remember a siren wailing late last night after i fell asleep, a scream from beyond my basement window. That upset me enough to have to roll over.
Oh torpid ennui, you are like a master to me. And thanks for all the thoughts, my mind doesn't think enough already. I haven't died enough times to not acknowledge you.
"Apathy. That's cool," he said to me as we emptied the house. "Not cool," i wanted to tell him, "Not cool at all."
I have to go now. The coffee is almost gone, and i can't stand this line of amoral ingenuity any longer.
I hate you, Jung. I hate you, "masters" of the mysterious. Don't lie to me, I'll use you up. I'll eat you for breakfast. Fucking mice. | | |
| He was at a friend's house. I wasn't, hadn't been in a long time. He went on with his story. I listened.
If i could go to English class every day of the week, I would. I enjoy the lecture, the learning process.
At home, i call my mom and tell her all about school. She's always very hospitable. I get excited and pace from room to room as i talk. Then i make some tea.
After i get off the phone, I watch tv on the internet and check myspace and i slip onto a friend's page and i remember her and i think about her and i open a sad cd (i have hundreds of them) and listen to it and then email a different friend and ask him if he thinks we're just extras in the shit script of someone special's divine dream. "What's my motivation," i ask him and i'm serious.
They call them "online diaries." Wikipedia sums up my life with the lines, "In online diaries, people write their day-to-day experiences, social commentary, complaints, poems, illicit thoughts and any content that might be found in a traditional paper diary or journal. They often allow readers to contribute through comments or community postings."
My friend posts an article about a woman who was raped and then jailed after the police found out she had a warrant out for her arrest. She was refused the morning after pill while in jail. Her name was not being released. The headline my friend gave it went something like, "We must kill them or hurt them very very badly before they kill us."
Today i ate spaghetti with chicken. I also ate some dip i made and an open-faced pb and j. School was great. I wish i could have stayed there. | | |
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