On why Drunken Angel is better than you and other rants.

Today started out as simple as yesterday with one exception, I awoke to the pretentious sounds of the Sci-Fi channel. After repeatedly burning myself with my "wake-up cigarette", involuntarily brought on by a show called Pete 2.0, or some stupid shit, I marched into my office, drank a pint of whiskey, and listened to Drunken Angel (Emmylou Harris) enough times to make Santa Claus cry. And all this in enough time to get to work.
But I didn't get to work in any easy, normal manner.
The person giving me a ride insisted on screaming at the sluggish, sloth-like construction workers working on the street like the old cock-sucking bastard that he actually is, and bitched me out for what I had chosen to wear for the day.
First of all, who the fuck is he to tell me what to wear? Second of all, why do I have that incessant rash on my left testicle. I'm guessing some questions will never be answered.
But back to the story. After arguing (physically and otherwise) for fifteen minutes with dolts, I finally got to work, only to recall that I had clipped my badge (by way of an alligator tooth clip) to my cats tail, mostly to watch it suffer, and apparently to forget to bring it to my hell-ride of a job.
"Fuck", I muttered under my breath, just loud enough to let all the non-working procrastinating sons of bitches choking down crappy cigarettes to hear, and stomped into work. Not three seconds after I get my cup of coffee, I'm approached by a clean-cut, short, official looking little bastard that proceeds to patronize me and say things like "There he is!", and "You know, you are the sharpest dresser in this place!!!!111!11!1!!!!!!". Now, of course if this was the first time that this had happened, I'd have punched in the jugular like he deserved, but this has actually been going on for something like 4 weeks. Who in their right fucking mind would go out of their way to patronize somebody that they have never met?! Apparently this choad would.
I kindly turned down his suppositions and told him to go back to hell and got my ass to my cubicle, where I was accosted by not one, not two, fuck, not even three, but six different people, that for some reason knew that I was having a shitty morning, over the phone. Needless to say, I've gone through three key-boards, ten monitors, seventeen PCs(that suck), and eight children since I've been in this hell-hole.
Stupidity has somehow rocketed itself into view by means of human beings, which, I know, has been happening for centuries now. But when did some fascist asshole have to make it so blunt and in your face, like an MTV special about hypochondriacs?
Fight the system, I say.
Now I'm going to take more phone calls that go absolutely nowhere, chug coffee, and continue hating you, myself, and everything around me.

You pricks.

Suppositions about the Televisions.

Let's go back in time. Let's assume that music stayed the way it was while it was still fresh. After enveloping yourself in this simple fact, let's imagine that there were still bands that were willing to play genuinely decent tunes that were explorational (and yes i'm factoring out groups like The Blood Brothers, and Wolf Eyes, and Muse). Now tell me: How does the world look now?

An addled brain for an addled week. It just so happens that when you drink too much and smoke too many "all-natural-cigarettes", your frontal lobe timporarily shuts down and causes you to make cloudy decisions. Or that is the only theory that I could come up with off of the top of my head in the short amount of time granted.

I went out and bought a new guitar this weekend...Lavern. Never heard of the brand but the guitar itself is exceptional. And Barack Obama is still my number one candidate for the presidential election.

What say you? Friend or Foe?

My mind is not solid enough to write anymore...perhaps another time.

Can you dig it suckas?

Back With a Vengence.

Many times throughout our lives we will inevitably reach troubled and lean days. Days when we can't seem to get off of the couch we sleep on, or put on clean clothes because in all reality, our hearts just aren't in it. Today was one of those days, but fortunately those are my favorite kind of days, the only thing that keeps me going.
Met a girl a year or so back, whose name I'll purposefully fail to mention, for confidentiality reasons. She's talented, and beautiful, smart, and wonderful. It's such an unfortunate fact that I'm a human chum-bucket that cannot please even the people that I hold most dear to me. Is it best to die alone, neglecting to neglect your loved ones? Or would it be best to delve into a situation in which you know not the outcome? These questions betroth me, I need answers and I need them now.
It's crucial now more than ever because this is the point in life where I need to explore and get out into the rest of the world; witness the other grotesque things that take place day to day.

But
the answers
never come because
nobody has received the
answer themselves. A Spark of
life is a highly overestimated thing.
It doesn't get you anything you need.
It doesn't deliver anything you want to have.

I'll get drunk by myself from now on.

"Keep true to yourself in order to obtain happiness."

Couldn't have stated it better myself, fortune cookie fortune.

I managed to hold the pact, to hold the proverbial fort. Drink I did not, but, alas, the dreams were still ever-present. Fortunately I have absolutely no recolection of what they might have pertained to, but I still have a bad feeling about them.

My two day weekend starts tonight, and I never did say anything about not tipping a bottle or two back tonight...did I.
...
..
.....that's what I thought.

Of course i'll be here to talk to absolutely nobody again on Saturday, which should include lots of wonderful poetry and prose by your depressed narrator.

But anybody reading this unimpressive compilation of experiences, I would consider them the "wind beneath my wings".



-Bet Midler-

p.s. Failed the written portion on my drivers' test today. Looks like my hippie-ass will be walking for awhile.

I wanna be like Céline.

"To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose. People don't deserve the restraint we show by not going into delirium in front of them. To hell with them!"

If an uncaring attitude is subject to utmost enlightenment, Céline must be the Li Po of the 20th century.

Work is nearly finished. I spent my day reading Bukowski and drinking coffee. Wonder afternoon I must say.

I've made a pact with myself tonight, you'll be happy to know. I will not go home and get drunk off of cheap whiskey and eat an entire bag of chips, which i've had the tendency to do lately. And why? Because your alchoholic narrator is attempting to escape the tormenting dreams that have been haunting him as of late. And because he has a blister on his finger that looks similar to an asshole missing its buttplug, with no explination for why but that he was too drunk to feel the heat on the car lighter.

So while you're sitting next to your fireplace, trying to stay warm and chain-smoking the night away, the next drink you toss back, drink it for me, because I don't get to drink, because I made a stupid pact, and this is the worst run on scentence in the history of mankind, so there.

...booyah...

Another night with nothing to do.

Last night was again an alchohol fueled depressed sleep. However, given the fact that I had recurring dreams about my ex-wife, i'm curiously enlightened today to the shortcommings of my life. I've learned to accept what is inevitably going to push me down six flights of stairs. I just hope I retain that verve as long as humanly possible.

I'd like to follow this up with a poem by Charles Bukowski. I believe it is the most elevated piece of literature i've ever read:






mind and heart

unaccountably we are alone
forever alone
and it was meant to be
that way,
it was never meant
to be any other way-
and when the death struggle
begins
the last thing I wish to see
is
a ring of human faces
hovering over me-
better just my old friends,
the walls of my self,
let only them be there.

I have been alone but seldom
lonely.
I have satisfied my thirst
at the well
of my self
and that wine was good
the best I ever had,
and tonight
sitting
staring into the dark
I now finally understnad
the dark and the
light and everything
in between.

peace of mind and heart
arrives
when we accept what
is:
having been
born into this
strange life
we must accept
the wasted gamble of our
days
and take some satisfaction in
the pleasure of
leaving it all
behind.

cry not for me.

grieve not for me.

read
what I've written
then
forget it
all.

drink from the well
of your self
and begin
again.

-C. Bukowski, come on in!, 1993-



hell, i'll drink to that.

Oh, don't worry, i'll keep you posted.

The end of my work day has finally arrived, and I can't help but wonder what travesties lie ahead. What will become of this junked out narrator? Will his nowhere music attempt ever bring him fame and fortune? Will he discover a good woman who never lets him down? And will he ever figure out how to shave without accidentaly leaving a patch under his emaciated chin?

Answers:
No
Probably not in this lifetime
Unless he gains a pound or two he's going to look like an idiot his whole life.

I leave you now to your ponderings, and a long night of drinking, cursing, smoking, and the various other tasks that await you.

Good luck, moseltov, and a happy kwanza to you my guten monsiuer.

Too Many Cigarettes, Not Enough Enzymes

My impression of new Marlboro: Virginia Blend:

I've smoked about 18 of these in the last 8 hours, and come to the conclusion that,

A: They don't taste too particularly mellow or crisp, as the box states.

B: If this perfection (also noted on the back of the box) is existant, i have yet to discover it.

C: After five in a row during lunch, I was left craving a cigarette, obviously not enough nicotine to tide your average chain-smoker over.

D: After smoking said 5 cigarettes, I am now nauseous and am having cold sweats.

All in all, they are not very good. The box is interesting enough to lure me into buying them, but the flavor leaves a bit to be desired. If nausea is your kick, i'd recommend them, if not, stick to Reds.

And on a lighter note, tonight will be another night filled with binge drinking, vomiting bile, and more bodily harm than I could possibly muster. Get ready! Get set!

GO!!!!!!!!!

That taste in your mouth when you wake up.

Morning, daylight. A bad attempt to remedy a seemingly invincible hangover. Headache, bumps, bruises, stubble on my face. I look like a zombie out of a knockoff Romero film.

I contemplated fashioning a gun out of a paperclip, a three inch piece of string, and a banana peel. With which to shoot myself in the throat, but decided against it when I realized that I still had more Evan Williams to drink. A bad reason to live, but a reason nonetheless.

I though heavily in the late hour last night about all of these people i'm forced to comunicate with day to day; I pondered while sipping McCormick vodka on all of the beautiful, lovely women that had the misfortune to have known me. The toll taken was a question of self demise, is it selfish? Being alone (mentally) isn't so bad I suppose, but it sure does feel empty, and lonely.

January is right around the corner, my anniversary was last month, and I only have five more cigarettes; oh the life I live.

Pinky Finger Devil's Hell Ride.

Say Rock!

Say Roll!

*headbutt*

If only he were still around to teach us the things that need to be taught in this day and age. Last night consisted of cheap vodka, being punched in the kisser by a Mexican man named Jorje, and having my pinky cut halfway off by a piece-o-shit knife (Craftsman, $8.50, Wallmart). After I had done all of these things I sat back and had to reflect on my night/day. What had possessed that asshole to punch me, why would I put a car lighter out on the palm of my hand?

The only legible theroy came to me in the form of an existential quote:

"And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh."

-Nietzche-

And what relavency that had to the night, i've yet to discover. So while you sit there tonight, reading the ramblings of a tool like myself, ask yourself this, was it all worth it in the end? Do you regret what you did because now you have to go to the free clinic and get 800mg ibuprofen for $1 donation? Or do you regret it because there were no laughs?

Personal Identification.

I would like to start off by explaining the difference between each type of druggie. Afterwhich there will be room for inflection and self mediation, followed by personal identification. You must be one with each of these sorry sons-of-bitches in order to become one of these sorry sons-of-bitches.

1. The Crackhead

http://www.drugrehab.net/images/image036.jpg

This is your typical American crackhead. Notice that they are not too incredibly emaciated, due to the fact that smoking or shooting crack cocaine, or any intake of the euphoric coca alkaloids, has an incredibly short half-life. The high will be gone around fifteen minutes after the intake occured. This makes for an incredibly expensive habit that could not be supported regularly due to the limited quantity being shipped from outside nations, such as Columbia, or Mexico. Also note the look of desperation in the eyes of this gangly looking broad...hibidy jibidy!

2. The Meth Addict a.k.a. Uncle Jerry

http://www.hartfordprojectcare.com/images/meth/Picture18.jpg

I'd like to start off by saying that this man looks strikingly similar to William H. Macy, which is hilarious. But on a more serious note, notice the large declined in weight, there are worse photos that document the effect much more in depth that what I was able to produce on a moments notice. Although these effects are common, they do not ensue until the user has had an active addiction for a year or longer. Look deep into his pupils, feel the hate...he hates you. OH SNAPS!

3. Opiate Addict (i.e. Heroin, Lortab, Morphine, etc.)

http://img145.imageshack.us/img145/742/heroin2ku.jpg

This, my friends, is a person addicted to Heroin, a highly concentrated form of Morphine. Very physically addictive after being exposed regularly for a month or so, its weightloss rate is not nearly as high as methamphetamines, but higher than cocaine and the like. Heroin hit the hipster scene like a ton of bricks during the sixties and seventies, claiming the lives of many talented and revered musicians. Today heroin is not nearly as present as methamphetamines or synthetic drugs such as oxycoton or xanax, which are man-made benzoates.

Just something to look back on. Something to catagorize yourself with the neverending plane of self understanding gets you down.

Beat it punk.

And so, God hath wrought forth his fury in the form of a New Beginning.

"A real hangover is nothing to try out family remedies on. The only cure for a real hangover is death. "

-Robert Benchley-

This is the only quote that I could procure at the moment, so i'm going with it, and it goes well with the mood.

The beginning, like an ending, seems as monumental as the scenes that make the filling of the existential pie. And so...without further adue, I give you: The Junkies' Journal.

And of course i'll have to come up with a witty nickname for the whole thing at some point. And if you're wondering: "Well, what's the junkies' journal?", i'll tell your ass. It will be composed of witty comments including either a story of the previous night, an ironic picture that i've taken myself followed with witty commentary, or a random thought that seems (at the moment) like an Epiphany (also with witty commentary). Let's hope it isn't a huge failure like everything else i've done.

Cheers.