Cult Fiction - Revelations in Drunken Ridiculousness: or how i learned to stop worrying and love the bottle

Ridiculous Tears

Sweat pours down my face these days. insects bite at exposed skin. My danger has come dangerously close to manifesting itself in my daily routine. Normalcy has become a laughable goal. I find myself weary. dizzy. nauseous. on the verge of collapse. Why has this become so difficult? My fantasies are starting to blend with reality. violent undertones.

When I was younger, I thought this all was a phase. I thought things like poverty, insecurity, self destruction, sexual craze: I thought this was a staple of youth. get it out, i thought. Be a normal citizen eventually. ten years later, it is worse than ever.

the laughable part is how well i thought i would do. We used to ride in my friends small truck, 4 of crammed in a small space. We would drive around, and shoot people's houses with paintball guns. We would throw eggs at garage doors. steal sunglasses and CDs from unlocked cars. Shoot waterguns at homeless people. Silently peer out of my friend Dave's window at a neighbor sunbathing topless, giggling at our first glances of adult nudity. I remember feeling daring; dangerous. We would blow up Porta-Shitters with dry ice bombs. Falling into juvinielle hysteria at the thought of some poor ass of a construction worker finding his shitter caked with piss and feces. Amazing. The night used to hold such promise. Such daring. Such adventure. i would feel as if I had a secret life as this asshole delinquent. It made me feel alive.

Only now.............Only now the thrill of night is gone. Those friends who rode laughing into oblivion with me are either dead or well on their way to a charmingly middle class life, with well paying jobs, mortgages, wives, IRAs, and responsibility. I failed at faking such normalcy. I failed at being a responsible member of society. these same friends now look at me with a disgust. They hide it well, but I see it. beneath the smiles, and beneath the hugs and laughs and reminiscing. These friends would never accompany me again on such adventures. these friends are good people. These friends recall me with such phrases as " what ever happened to Adam, he held such promise"

I don't need friends. I don't need laughs. I don't need sympathy. I need a full bottle. I need a warm body that loves me without condition. I need an empty piece of paper to rant to. I need nothing. I need everything

Tears fall for ridiculous reasons. Dead friendships and relationships that will never mend. No more pool at Pool Sharks. No more 2-15 drives with a Big Gulp cup full of coke and Jim Beam. No more Black and Milds. No more Santa Porn. No More

Everyone continues. I stay the same. Fuck them. i need nothing.

Personal Crusade

I like to think of myself as a fairly good faker of normalcy. In fact, I

took much pride in this ability. I could put a wide smile in my face

while making pointless small talk with strangers. Little did my goofy

grin and brigt eyes betray my utter disgust for the platitudes that

spewed from their holes. Weather is weather. It will always be too hot,

too cold, too rainy, too windy, too nice. Sports are sports. Your team

is awesome/horrible/recovering/showing great potential. Politicians are

politicians. They will always lie and cheat and steal while professing

our best interests in mind. They will sexually harass their interns and

abuse drugs while passing condemning legislation against both. Because I

am younger, I am still exposed to so many topics: MMA fighting, social

networking, video games, Jager bombs, dance clubs, current pop hits,

fashion trends, I-phones, celebrity rehab stints, tabloid pics, green

technology, reality TV shows, graduating college, getting a good job,

reading books about wizard children or glittery vampires, spray tanning,

some fascination with people from Jersey, college football scores, and

credit scores.

I used to be so good at faking my normalcy and interest in these things

in the name of politeness and anti-awkwardness in social settings. But

the past couple years I have become very very aware of one simple fact.

I don't fucking care. At all. Not even the least bit. And I don't care

that you know I don't care.

It makes me so sick. All of it. I feel like I am on some sort of fucked

carousel spinning dangeroulsy out of control while the kaliedescope of a

nation so fucking up its own ass with ridiculous shit flys past me in

bright colors and loud noises. The sound of us all on a final death

march to the land of the intelectually fucked. The spinning grows faster

and faster, I feel the hot burning vomit creeping up my throat. What

used to be polite smiles and nods has turned into sneers and utter

contempt etched onto my face. I have no connection with my generation.

We profess to be so forward thinking and radical, while creating an

atmosphere of indulgence and fake rebelliousness. Young law students

get full sleeve tattoos. Your accountant probably has an nose piercing.

I bet your neighbor has a trendy blog that she fills with artsy photos

of sunsets, closeups of food and stupid fucking inanimate objects in

black and white, while filling pages with procclomations of how simple,

artsy, and in touch with their surrondings they are. Watch, I bet she

does. Go knock on her door and ask. I will wait........See, told you.

Things like tattoos, peircings, writing, poetry, and excessive drinking

used to be the signs of the eternally fucked. Outlaws, rebels, social

deviants, agoraphobic nuerotics, and general assholes. They fringed away

from society while advocating social change and acceptance. In here lies

the problem. Instead of sticking to the dream, these sonsofbitches

settled down, bought 3 bedroom houses, and starting popping out kids.

Now these signs of rebelliousness are trendy and hip.

I have decided to make it my personal crusade to be an asshole. I don't

give a fuck about anything. I don't want your stupid phone. I don't want

to watch that asinine show. I don't want to dance with slutty college

chicks to top 40 hits at a bar that sells $9 beers. I want solitude that

is broken only by a few souls I trust. I want to drink at the most

innapropiate times. I want to quikly tell anybody who has the audacity

to bring up UFC that I think it is fucking retarded. I want dark qiuet

bars where they KNOW BETTER than to bother you while you are doing

something as important as drinking. I want my girlfriend who tolerates

my insanity and contributes some of her own. I want to never wear an

article of clothing with a logo on it. I want to drink whiskey and smoke

cigars on an empty porch until I am fall down drunk a.d then crawl to

bed. I don't give a fuck, and I don't care.

Call me a misanthrope. It feels great.

I drink to the death of ideas. I drink to the death of rebelliousness. I

drink to the death of my generation.

cheers

A Venture into the Unknown

Slowly I move into their midst. Like a pack of wild boar, I ease in as not to startle with sudden movements. The gleaming faces and entitled souls ooze everywhere. The smell of overpriced beef and stale red wine wafts through the the pleasant breeze of the nights air. My girlfriend senses my pending panic, clutches my hand. "it's just fine Adam"...she proclaims," a just fine place to grab a bite to eat before the concert". My god, the concert, I thought. The end goal of the evening had momentarily escaped me in the face of all this WASP like pleasure. To think that after dining with these highly entitled members of an American class I hold no familiarity with we must then share the experience of a 'Folk Festival' sent shivers of fear and loathing down my spine. My tattoos were getting looks already. Every emotion from curiosity to disgust was being sent in my direction, over tilted menus and hushed under 20 dollar glasses of wine. Thank Gods< I thought> That this crowd didn't see my 20 yr old jalopy parked 5 blocks away. No doubt she was being assaulted by whatever do-gooder civil servant called himself a "parking enforcer" and I was sickly sure of the fines that would be stacked up upon my return. But, into the lions den we went. the looks continued to pile up, from middle aged couples i could picture harassing minorities at local country clubs while praising the efforts of their Hispanic housekeepers to there friends and neighbors. Almost in a PANIC now, we are seated in front of a cheap old piano being played by a robust professor type in a fashion that went out of style around the fall of 1972. Smooth jazz and rat pack espue classics filled the air in such a cheesy and horrible way that Sinatra himself would have been throwing up in his blue-eyed grave. The onslaught on non-allowance continued. Our one menu was thrown at us in haphazard fashion by a waitress who searched desperately around the dining room for a more important table to allow her attention. We quickly note that our menu is different, a paper 3fold stapled together under the header " Folk Festival Menu". As if the fact that we were under 40, tattooed, and I was not wearing white slacks made us automatically eligible for such a menu. We noted other couples already under the onslaught of gourmet bread, a sommlier, and opening rounds while we sweat and waited under the speakers of this Cleavland caricature of a lounge singer belting dead songs into our ears. A quick glance around the velvet and wood paneled room revealed not one minority. I quickly text a very good friend of mine who enjoys African and Iranian heritage that I desired so badly for his large, heavily tattooed ass to be there to help create a scene. Perhaps we could get drunk and wave our lower class dicks at the wax statues, while my drugged girlfriend could show her new fake tits to every socialite in the building. But, alas, no such luck. We eat our slowly prepared but simple 'folk festival' menu options and scurry out of this haven for the entitled and wanna be alike. Let them be to their overpriced drinks and an obviously fake "pub" which welcomes only the few, and shuns the masses. We stumble laughing into the street and enter the venue for tonight's activities. My heart immediately rejoices at the sign of a bar tent, and then recoils in terror at the long line and overpriced booze. The multiple gins from dinner will just have to hold I suppose. After much confusuion about seating, it was helpfully pointed out to us by numerously ridiculously dresses ushers that we belong in the back of the stadium seating, as far from the stage of possible. I sigh in relief to be so far from the entitled masses, but I know she is disappointed. We settle in to these 'cheap seats' and enjoy the show in progress. Never in my life of attending every punk rock show I could from age 12-age 20 had I seen a spectacle like this. Emotionless faces of the old enjoying a night out. Sloppy college girls, already drunk on top shelf cocktails dancing in the aisles to music that represents nothing of the privileged life they enjoyed. A sea of middle age executives and successful merchants eager for a night out from the daily norm of a mind bending hell I cannot even imagine. I looked down from my cheap seats and viewed it all in horror. The half hearted cheers. The occasional claps from the lobotomy driven crowds. I sat and viewed the awfulness of like trying to break through these statues. The light, the fire was there. A famous comedian took the stage, embarking on a recent bluegrass music career. here the cheers become odd. of course he is funny. of course he speaks to the memories of humor in our youth. but the tempo is off. The zombies applaud and make human like noise, but I am not believing it. How can a group of people this large ignore such talent and show such polite restrain? to me shows are where every notion of civility and social norm are immediately sacrificed. you surrender your body and soul to the raw talent being showcased, you lose yourself in pure ecstatic pleasure of the notes and chords and lyrics being carried from the stage to you, a sweaty fanatic, on the warm breeze of summer. You feel that connection with artist and instrument alike, and know no matter what could happen at this existential ecstatic moment, it would be alright, as we are all here together experiencing magic in person. but none of this existed on this warm night. polite applause. the occasional toe tap. you can almost see them, telling others in their office prison the next day how 'neat' it was. I left quickly before last call. These people. These caricatures. these modern day nobles riding their chariots of Cadillac and BMW. they are not for me. i left oddly calm in my fear. someday, i vowed, i will find those like us. those with only 8 bucks to spend on a ticket. those tattooed with the signs and symbols of a society that rejects. there are others. I will find that right show. The show where you pause in the doorway while getting frisked for weapons, and smell the desperation and sweat of the class that simply does not give a fuck, and desires only the serious distraction of the horror of present day lower class life by a show given by those shortly departed from similar circumstance. My grim smile, and my hand in my beautiful girls hand, I vow. We will find where music is a matter of life and death, not a casual welcome to an entitled life. the car will barely start. I have a ticket. we go into the night, hands clenched......

The Beast

As I stop and ponder, and look through the slideshow of the past ten years of my life, I find myself with questions. Was there ever a point where I could have avoided being stranded in my current state of despair? Common sense and the principle of Free Will says yes, but I have become hesitant to accept that. When I look ever so close at the events of the past ten years, I see the writing on the wall very early. The first love of my life was a crazy girl who I would have gladly removed my leg for if she but ask. I remember loving her so much it would hurt to breathe on occasion. We fought, and laughed, and fucked, and cried, and loved for years before it came spinning down in a fiery crash. And it's in these chaotic years of heartbreak and lustful teen experimentation that I begin to catch a glimpse of my own insanity deep inside me. Still a naïve and noble child, I buried down deep such impulse and marched recklessly forward into a semi-normal life. But as I plundered through numerous failed relationships, it grew harder and harder to contain the poisons within me. I desperately fought to kill them. I discovered my insatiable appetite for liquor. I covered myself in painful tattoos. I piled sexual infidelity upon sexual infidelity. I volunteered for the most strenuous and dangerous work that I could. But still the fire kept growing and burning in my belly. It kept me up at night, whispering promises in my ear. In a desperate act, I married a beautiful but naïve girl who never in her life could have imagined a silent monster like me loving her. My desperate gamble almost worked. For several years, I was able to control the inevitable eruption. But the vibrations grew ugly. The mere act of containing this beast inside me began to take its toll. I began to come apart at the seams. Sensing my impending defeat, I tried vain last ditch efforts to hold off the disaster. But the façade was too much. I pushed away my young wife, who sensed the doom approaching, until she had no choice but to leave me at this awful brink all alone. The small part of my soul not consumed aches and cries out with her departure, but it has grudgingly accepted that we can afford no collateral damage. Slowly I melt in this raging inferno; an ice cube left out on a hot asphalt road. I flail about in desperate attempts at normalcy, but the countdown has already begun. And the more I succumb, the stranger the blackness grows. There will never be enough booze, there will never be enough pussy, there will never be enough fights, or epic nights spent stumbling around this world in a haze of self destruction, a once giant star now collapsing upon itself in a nova of drunkenness and fucking and crying and bleeding and vomiting. A supernova that will eventually collapse in on itself completely and leave just a hole. A black hole. And that's what I will be. A hole of all matter and feeling that will suck in and destroy any light that has the misfortune to shine near me. I think back to the beginning of these ten years. I see the laughter, and the smiles, and the thrill of young love, but now I can look deep and see that first ember being sparked, and know that even if I had lived those ten years a thousand times over, it still would have been lit.

Don't Breathe

When the lies pour in my waiting mouth, I hold my breath in anticipation. I want the falsehood and comfort of those liquid nightmares. They wash away the brutal realties of our times. The whole day I hunger for these cool warm platitudes to cloud my once sharp mind with the fake hope of better times. There was once a time in my life when I held things dear and close to my heart. There was absolutes that I dare not contend, ones that embraced me when I awoke in the youthful morning, and comforted me while I slept in the brisk nights. god was in heaven. My mother in the kitchen. my friends at my side. my girlfriend(s) beside me at the wheel of a broken down car. the hope and dreams of an infinite future ahead of me. ambition leaked from my pores, a sickly sweat that oozed over all doubts of a life of medicority. I dreamt of a HAPPY content life full of all the lies of grade school. you can be whatever you want when you grow up, and such, The world is yours for the taking, true love exists for the weird and fucked and normal alike. I basked in these aversions of the truth. The fucked and dark of the world was a mystery to me. My smiling face suppressed the doubts that rarely bubbled up to a confident surface. I loved God and Country alike. I dreamed of a life of ultimate sacrifice and the blissful embrace of selflessness. Yes, these truths were sacred indeed. I would help my fellow man. I would lend my sharp mind and witty toungue for the betterment of society. I was almost pious in my vain assumption that the dark, uncaring galaxies would find guidance in my words and wisdom.

I realize now the fatal flaw in my thoughts. we are brainwashed with these bullshit ideas and falsehoods from a young age to keep us eager and hopeful. a whole nation of ambitious zealots, ready to replace the last generation. Little do our propaganda filled minds take notice of the defeated scowls and exhausted expressions on the faces of this outgoing generation, this alumni of the fucked. We shuffle past them in our hurry to the middle, eager and willing to sacrifice ourselves to a lifestyle of indulgence, debt, alcoholism, adultery and false enlightement disguised as PRODUCTIVITY. do I profess to be some sort of mystic for the realization of this horror? no. I am well aware of the monument of my hypocrocies and failures. i profess no greater knowledge than any other fucked sould desperate for an outlet to release my frustrations upon an uncaring universe. I have merely been blessed with a fucked soul and thirst greater than any sane man should posesses. I have merely decided to not participate in this festival of broken dreams, lost souls, and participation in a lifetsyle that serves no other than our already inflated ego. I just want to drink. And write bullshit about a atmosphere of noncompliance with a life I don't understand. This makes me no better than the rest. I hold no pious feelings. I just yearn, in vain, to survive. I waste no time on hope. Just pray to a indifferent universe that I may CONTRIBUTE something of value before the incredible levels of indulgence overtake me, and forever silence a tounge poisoned with bitterness weirdness and bourbon.

Babble

I am beginning to lose my stomach for the news. I am starting to crave a bubble of ignorance. Death. Oil Spills. Genocide. Earthquakes. Celebrity DUIs. It all makes me want to vomit. So much filth and vile intent. So much bad grammar. For what is one sin without another? And all the talk of hope. You can wear hope with a clever fucking Tshirt. Buy it at the store when you purchase your 10% recycled designer shirt from a mega chain that is paying homeless street urchins in some third world cesspool to sew it for your HOPEFUL ass. We prosecute immigrants. Forbid marriages. Villanize a plant that can be smoked with no more side effects than a cigar, that is virtually impossible to overdose on, while you promote alcohol, a dangerous and wonderful drug, as a hip mind expander. Fucking priorities. Fucking out of whack,

I am normally not very political. I don't fucking vote. It doesn't matter. They are all the same, deep down. I am just tired of the news. Tired of Robin's beautiful face telling me of the latest quadruple child homicide one minute, and about the water skiing hamster the next. I am tired of discussing the ISSUES with bored people in a dull office. Just portly swine feeding off the filth of pop culture and political punchlines.

I dream of the day it can all be left behind. I will find that lil island. deserted beach. small shack. nice little waves rolling in 300 days a year. I will never wear shoes or a shirt again. Grow my veggies and weed in the lil garden. Write volumes of bullshit no one will likely ever read. Get drunk as fuck off homemade rum and pass out next to a bonfire every night. Reject it all. Remove the filth of modern society. It's the only future that sounds sane to me. It makes perfect sense. being 70 years old and working as a WalMart greeter, while I collect shitty pension checks and live in my 'retirement community' aka place we stick old people so they wont bother the rest of us, waiting for the once a year visit from kids and grand kids who wish they could have gotten out of coming this year.......THAT is insanity. No, my island will do just fine. Prob die trying to surf while drunk as a skunk and high as a kite during a storm swell. Huge grin on my bearded and sunburned face as I realize through my drunken stupor that I have paddled out too far this time...to far and I wont be coming back. Never find my body. No ridiculously expensive grave and tombstone for me. No marker for my family to feel guilty about not visiting. Just the sea. And a small shack, full of booze and words. Overgrown with weeds, it will await the next misanthrope who rejects the world to come along. There is always another...

ahhhhh I cant wait. If you find my dream selfish, then fuck you. I used to have hopes and ambitions. I used to dream of saving the world. Now I can only hope to save myself.

Crusade

Many people use the phrase crawled into a bottle ... I like it. I think it works. I did crawl. On hands and bloody knees...Through pits of desperation and despair so poignant it made me wanna puke. I can remember that first drink. That first true drink. Not wine at a family dinner, or champagne at a cousin's wedding, but the true embrace of liquid hope. It was a shot of cheap blackberry brandy. Fucking disgusting now that I think about it. I remember feeling the warmth spread down my chest and arms. A feeling of superiority took over. I was invincible, unstoppable. That night was full of such awful randomness as the drinks poured, and buffoons laughed into the warm summer night without a care in the world. Foolishly dismissive of our fates. I tackled a line of fucking trash cans that night. Drunk called every girlfriend that had ever had the bad luck and misfortune to know me. Dumb cunts. Should have realized what an asshole I was. A new man was born that day. Bolder. Edgier. Hornier. Everything changed. The world bore colors I never knew existed, a fat chick never looked so beautiful and obtainable. I was a pioneer in my own mind, setting forth alone across this drunken plane of debauchery, without a second thought to consequences. My step was giddy, my heart light, my horizon endless. I marched forward with this tomfoolery, to a land of brutal vomiting, headache mornings, awkward aplogies, and beautiful sweaty memories of wet pussy in random friends' houses. It was a glorious union, this blessed substance and I. T here were never two better friends. Then the journey was over. My fellow pioneers reached their destination. O' my brethren how I fucking envy thee. They laid down claim, bore children and memories. Went on fucking ghastly horrible vacations to the American Middle. But I refused to stop walking in this awful landscape. One by one they sloughed off, until I was truly alone. I sludged by, a true monument to the original dream now living dangerously outdated. I saw their happiness through eyes pinched shut by a brain constantly under the violent onslaught of a beverage hell bent on its ultimate destruction. I am all alone now. Feet bloody and mishapen from my tragic search. What the fuck I am looking for ...The others found it. Why was it so easy for them? Or was it all a ruse, an elaborate deception constructed by those desperate for the peace and comfort of a soft bed, and a warm pair of tits to share it with? Time will tell. But still I walk. Stumbling really, now. The booze isn't as special as it once was. The feelings of invincibility have escaped me. The strength of the dream has fled as well. I still only walk in this fucking wasteland under a blind hope ...That eventually the horizon will end...That there will be a exquisite blue sea awaiting me ... Full of Large Breasted mermaids holding jugs of good booze. Keep fucking walking man ... You made an oath within on that first drink. And you can't quit now ...

We are all our own pioneers on this fucked journey. It is our drunken obligation to veer off that twisted path of normalcy. Drink the shitty booze. Fuck the fat chick. Scorn your friends and neighbors. Embarrass your parents. We all owe it to that pioneer spirit.

Bless you first drink, first covenant with an unholy crusade.

Sorry

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for stealing that girl's hair beret in 2nd grade. I'm sorry for all the homework i never did. I'm sorry for telling every girl I ever fucked that I care. I'm sorry for being weak. I'm sorry for being fat. I'm sorry for being drunk. I'm sorry to Lauren for taking it too far. I'm sorry to Jara for not fully understanding your craziness. I'm sorry to Katie for disappearing. I'm sorry to Nick for not being there when you needed me most. I'm sorry to KB for lying and stealing. I'm sorry to Adam B for not being at Black that night. I'm sorry for hating my mother. I'm sorry for being a son that no father wanted. I'm sorry to my beautiful Sonya for not being the man you needed. I'm sorry to my babies for being gone so much. I'm sorry to my friends for being that asshole you have to make excuses for. I'm sorry to Adam Jr. for never being there. I'm sorry to my brother-in-arms for being warm and safe when you are not. I'm sorry for not caring. I'm sorry I couldn't fix the world. I'm sorry for not being sorry.

I just want to swim now. Wade into the cold dark ocean. Feet go numb. Then my knees. And then thighs. Up to my waist now. Start swimming. Blue feet stop touching muddy bottom. Keep going. Don't look back. That world is not for me. It's full of pain, lies and falsehoods. Out here is salvation. Keep going. So cold. The men in grey suits notice. Won't be long now. Out here is a wild untamed reality. But an honest one. But i will keep going. As long as i can, keep going for that horizon ... till it ends.

The Road Ahead

Most days I stumble through the avenues and byways of this world in a stupor of resignation. People speak to me, and i hear a static. I can see in their eyes that there is something they need to tell me, but i hear nothing. My ears refuse to listen to the inane babble of the masses. Panic and despair comes in waves, crashing upon me with the force of a thousand tidal waves. They leave me gasping for air, and exhausted to the point of collapse. Random absurd memories will strike me from nowhere....old adventures. Drunken ridiculousness to its fullest. Broken mailboxes, stolen road cones, a truck filled with the smell of youthful zeal, weed, and spearmint gum. Anonymous warm mouths, tightly clenched lips in dark rooms. Cheap cigars, windows rolled down: laughter fills the warm desert night air. Music plays, we speed. Throwing any care away. HIGH HOPES for a beautiful future filling the dark sky as we embrace the vanity of American Youth.

Now, 8 yrs later, it is all dead. Those desert roads of my youth have been replaced with superhighways, ooozing with urban filth. All those dreams we drunkenly screamed into the night sky have finally transcended the atmosphere into a cold dark and uncaring universe. Everyday i search in vain for the slightest twinge of these old hopes buried deep within me. The road ahead is full of drunk uncertainity, of fears and panics and awkward disapointments. The fire has been put out. I can only now hope to survive until the bittersweet release of senility finally comes for me. I put no faith in my ability to adapt. Only to survive.

Eternal Lies & Falsehoods

Love. Friendship. Loyalty. They are fine fucking words. Sound great rolling off the tip of your tongue, like honey and kisses and rainbows full of fucking skittles showering upon children frolicking in open meadows. But they are just words. Empty words. The oldest of lies. They echo through the eternities, causing war, suffering, heartaches, lost virginity's in back seats, and countless disappointments. They have become the bastardization of values in the world, the war cry of a dead generation. Soul-less dribble out of the mouths of so many charlatans. What can we truly ever love? I love my children. But everyone must love their children, its a genetic obligation. There is nothing my children could ever do to make me not love them, so what conscious choice was ever put forth? Friendship is a fleeting and abstract concept, one of mere convenience. No one enjoys meeting new people, reciting the same stories over and over, so we fall like zombies in to this routine with those who we hate less and can tolerate more than complete strangers. And Loyalty. It has a price. for every man. We would all survive much better if that truth was in the back of all our heads at all times. Love is a term that has been so overused and commercialized by the pigs that control all, it has almost lost all meaning to us bottom feeders. We are taught that materialistic objects equate love; this propaganda is shoved down our throats by a witty and well financed foe. Diamonds, a uncommon and bland occurrence in geology, is suddenly a dramatically overpriced symbol of our LOVE. How did anyone anywhere ever love before there was a diamond to give??? Love (conscious love) dies. Friends leave you when you most need them. It's a theme that has been proven over and over and over and over in our lives, yet we still submit!!! we still assign hope to these FALSEHOODS that set us up for nothing but failure......

So what is the point friends? What is the point I am making with this rambling diatribe? Why should we even bother? why not hole up in a shitty skid row apartment and drink ourselves into insanity, giving the proverbial finger to the man and love and god and the world as a whole?? I admit, this seems a tempting and beautiful option. But, the reality is that this SEARCH for love and friendship and those we can be loyal too, this search friends, defines us. By attempting to love, we validate the purpose of love. By attempting to continue friendships, we bring purpose to that friendship. It's a damning cycle, one with little personal gain in the long run. No one will be there at the end, truly. Most of us will die alone, scared, and without meaning. But at that moment, as that last conscious thought fires through the dying nerve endings in our brains, don't we all want to know we tried? That we stood and told practical rationality to fuck itself? That we TRIED to love, we TRIED to be good friends, we TRIED to be loyal, whatever the

fuck that means? That we stared grim reality in the face, spat in its fucking eyes, and continued the vicious and cold vortex? I will be there at that moment. With a gut full of whiskey, a brain full of hate and contempt, and a dying, slowly beating heart full of emptiness; but with that one small corner reserved for the HOPE. The hope that it wasn't always in vain. Choose wisely in your assignment of falsehoods.....it will define you more than you know or desire.

Letter to My Best Friend

Hello friend,,,,,,

What defines our friendship. It certainly cannot be a mutual sharing of beliefs. As with humanity as a whole, you have changed with your age. You have entered a career that is both droll and unchallenging to your talents. Your life is a monument to the denial of basic human instincts. No fucking. No drinking/at least to the excess that is RESPECTABLE to the alcohol. No drugs. No spontaneity. No indulgence of hedonistic pleasures. No literature that challenges your sensible mind to accept radical views. Just stoic nights spent in front of the TV, watching the soulless filth of a blind society. Quiet acceptance of the dogma and doctrine that has been shoved down your gullet since birth/ my God how did you ever stand a chance?! You have become a sheep, under the guise of an intellectual. How the Fuck can you hope to have an OPINION of the world, when your view of said world is the crap that you have been TOLD is the way it is, without the slightest hesitation on your part!! The pigs have you my old friend, bogged down in their world, you are hopeless to return. Though our acquaintance will limp on for 60 more years, I feel we could have your funeral today, and it will be the exact same. "He was a good man, and always did the right thing"....What the Fuck is that. WHAT ABOUT THE WRONG?????!!!!!! We MUST refuse to be defined simply by the right we have done in our lives. How can you be content with a sudden violent death when you have never known the depraved love of a moral-less woman, the gut wrenching sting of a cheap whisky hangover, the blissful release that comes with the choosing of a tattoo over food until payday??? The FREEDOM, good sir. The freedom to give your boss the finger. The freedom to drink for breakfast. The freedom to stand on top of the mountain, rip your fucking clothes off, and scream horrible obscenities to the gods/demons/warlocks/cloud people for the ridiculousness of it all. Let the rage fly out of you, the molten hate of years of bottled and repressed energies, of denying yourself the pain and pleasures of manhood. Guzzle a bottle of liquid fire, grab your balls and fly down that mountain at 100 miles an hour with the music of our youth blaring, to a future that is wild and unthinkable, horrifying and wonderful, without rhyme or reason, without BOUNDARIES that have been imposed on you by a man in a funny hat 9 thousand miles away!!!!! I will meet you in this NEW WORLD, and we can let them all burn in the hell of their pointless suburban utopias, while we drink and laugh find the real meaning of it ALL (the journey to find the meaning IS the meaning you silly fuck).

But this is not meant to be. You will stay the course a responsible citizen of a white middle class America. And always have my love. And respect. But not my understanding. And not my spare ticket to the world that could be. I only pray that when near you, I catch that small glimmer, that oh so so small glimmer of the hope of a man imprisoned. Not the glazed look of a ventriloquist with the hand of oppression shoved up your ass. I will look for it, old friend. And drink an extra glass for you when it shines through.

Primal Urges

A decent and honest nights sleep is a fantastic luxury that has long eluded me. I can't remember the last time I had a deep sleep that was not aided by the blissful, warm blanket of drugs or booze. Those nights are special. I can feel the inner urgings by lunch time, the insistent voices of an exhausted soul . . . "Do it" . . . Take the pills, and the drinks" . . . "for fuck's sake, we need to sleep". I give in, oblige the demons/it feels so good. The room gets slippery. The words start to slur. I can feel the onslaught on my senses as strong and violent as the desert monsoons of my youth. That's it. Let it in. Let the chemicals do the work, recreate what nature has failed me. Ahhhh yes, the eyes droop. Motor skills cease to be effective. Bliss, sweet dreamless bliss. The sleep of a guilty soul going against what the gods intended. Creating my own natural selection. But THEN:

There are THOSE nights. The nights I am defiant. When I refuse to be intimidated by primal urges for sleep and refuge. When I know the foolish outcome of my rebellion. When I pretend I am normal. The frustration sets in early. "Fuck, it's TEN, why am I not tired" . . . panic begins to creep in. The sober reality of my naive mistake hits home, hard and fast with the power of a runaway train in an early tragic Western. why why why why why WHY. Why are others so easily seduced by the oldest of instincts??? Why do others simply make the conscious decision to just succumb to the bliss of gullt-free rest. It's late now. So fucking late. I remember being a child, and staring at the ceiling of my bedroom for hours on end, sleepless. I was so offended by the arrogant insistence of my parents that I get a "full nights sleep". What the fuck ever that means. Didn't they KNOW??? Most of the world was awake! What were they doing? What was I missing? The feelings of isolation and seclusion were never so strong as then. I felt duped. A sucker. Here I was SLEEPING all this time, when there was life to be lived. A world waiting to be discovered.

Only now do I realize the flaw in my logic. There isn't a party somewhere that I am missing. There is only frustration of others. pain. suffering. horrible sobriety. But now it is too late. My mind has been wired to feel tricked if I attempt such a ridiculous endeavor as a chemical free-sleep. I am 25. Twenty fucking five. Can I maintain this insanity? Can I unlearn what I convinced myself years ago was the truth? I hope so. I am tired of rough wakeups. I am tired of groggy walks to the kitchen in a desperate search for caffeine and other stimulants to continue the vicious cycle. I am tired of listening to the problems of others all day through the haze of utter exhaustion. God, it is lunch time again. What will be tonight's outcome?? I am so tired . . .

Fear and Loathing

At what point did I develop this disgust; this fear and loathing; this absolute hatred of most things. At what point did the waters part, and decide this fate for me. I feel like someone is holding my head under water. My days are filled with fakes. Fake friends, fake smiles, fake enthusiasm, fake interest. I have been robbed. Of my youth, my destiny. But the fault lies in myself. In my own weak blood and constitution. I am numb as I walk through my day. Dealing with things I could not care less about. Waiting in line in public is the worst thing I could ever wish upon somebody. panic sets in when i see the line. The disgust fills my chest like lava, I feel it bubbling into my mouth. My face glazes over in painful resignation. I hate the small talk with my fellow line victims. I hate the awkward smile from the cashier who doesn't care why I need coffee, Italian ice, and peanuts on a weekday afternoon. yes, I have a membership card. Why does that entail me all these fucking savings. Why couldn't the shit just have been cheaper to begin with? I find myself staring at others when I drive, yeah I am that guy. Two hours a day in the car has left me with a harsh interpretation of the state of our country based on the persons on our roadways. The spoiled teenage bitch in the car her daddy bought. The blue collar guys in work trucks, doing a job no one else wants for little appreciation. The truckers fighting to stay awake to deliver their latest load of materialistic crap to retailers. The douchebag rednecks in lifted trucks with confederate stickers and nascar decals. My emotions fly from hate to pity to hate again, Then I catch a glimpse. A fellow misanthrope. Older car. Similar look of zenlike resignation. But, just in the corner of the mouth . . . what's that . . . the slight smile. The wonderful realization of some whim in the overhwelming onslaught of the modern world. A song on the stereo? The distant memory of better times? The anticipation of better times to come? A realization of the orgasmic pleasure of small things, like a fresh burrito? We pass each other, these kindred souls and I. And for a second, a small wave of relief washes over me. There are OTHERS . . .

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