Overcoming hatred. I never thought it was something I’d need to possess, that ability.
I never hate. I don’t always love, that’s for sure. But hatred is a wasted emotion. I don’t like dealing with it and the things it does to one.
Lately, I’ve felt hatred for some things. Completely innocent fucking things. But they’re making me feel shitty. Making me feel anger. Making me hate. And it has nothing to do with those that are causing these feelings.
My neck hurts. Sitting in this shitty excuse for a couch, I wonder why.
“One day, you’ll want that,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s so cool to look at. To touch.”
“Oh,”
“Have you ever failed?” she asked.
“How can you ask that? Of course I’ve failed. Failed quite often, actually.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I fail every day. It seems every minute of every day.”
Veiled insults were tossed.
Many beers were drank.
Yet, no fucking.
Sell that shit on e-bay. Make a million bucks!
Shit in a commode that’s not hooked up.
Run in traffic.
Drive to a Burger King, just to honk your horn at it.
Take off your shirt in public. Take pictures of people’s reactions. Post them on the internet. Become famous.
Write a novel. But don’t let anyone read it.
Write a journal. Let everyone read it.
Kiss all the girls.
Kiss only one girl.
Start exercising. Drink Kool-Aid.
Lie to your boss. Take an extra day off every once in a while. Stop caring about your fucking job more than your life. Your sanity. Your girlfriend. Your health.
Let a fly live instead of killing it with a fly swatter.
Eat Brussel sprouts.
Watch a Michael Sera movie and not be bored.
Jump into a puddle when you’re wearing your best suit.
Wear a Scooby Doo tie to an interview.
Go look at houses you’ll never be able to afford.
Walk on the beach every morning.
Stop drinking soda. Start drinking lemonade.
Write down whatever comes to your mind. And never erase a word.
Say hello to a stranger. Say hello to a long lost friend.
Stop making excuses.
Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve never been, but wanted to go.
Go for a drive to somewhere you’ve been, and said you’d never go back.
Go for a drive somewhere other than your destination.
Write a letter.
Twiddle your thumbs when you’re bored.
Play tiddly winks with someone over the age of 70.
Throw a Frisbee for a dog to chase.
Pet a cat.
Squawk at birds in your yard.
Smell the grass after you cut it.
Find something to smile about every hour. Every half hour. Then every minute.
Eat more Pop Tarts and fewer tomatoes.
Aspire to be better than you were.
Laugh at monkeys.
Smile at babies.
Don’t be bitter about what happened, it wastes seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Hopefully, never decades.
Make up with friends who are mad at you. Even if it means swallowing your pride.
Find an excuse for old friends to come visit. Or if they won’t, go visit them. Sometimes you have to camp out in their back yard.
Wish upon a star.
Look for 4-leaf clovers. Even if you never find one.
Try not to get mad driving.
Find less faults and more beauty.
Wasting time can be a good thing, so get out there and waste some having fun.
Go to a baseball game or 10 during the summer.
Get drunk with strangers.
Get drunk with friends.
Don’t get drunk alone.
Watch your favorite movie for the 100th time.
Keep going to Lucero shows.
Find an excuse to go back to New Orleans and see if she’ll fall in love with it under better circumstances. But don’t be mad if it never happens.
Move out of the house you’re in by the end of the summer.
Find a new job.
A better job.
One that doesn’t stress you out for no reason.
One that gives back. Even a little.
Ask “How you’re doing?” and mean it.
Cook outdoors.
Remember that I could be, and has been worse.
Spend wisely.
Ask for help.
Find a new way to get there, wherever there is.
Take her where she wants to go.
Give the dogs an extra treat.
Stop worrying about it so much.
Listen to the Rolling Stones.
Try to play Q*bert again.
Stare at the sun too long.
Wish you were on the moon.
Walk barefoot on the road after it rains.
Start.
Then finish.
Showing posts with label 755 words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 755 words. Show all posts
Monday, March 12, 2012
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
a giraffe drinking
I pull up to the house. Go inside with the groceries. Go back outside to check the mail. Yep, another bill. I can’t remember the last time I got a letter. No one writes ‘em anymore. That’s for sure. I tried to. But no one wrote back. So, I gave up. Maybe I’ll try again. I still have all those postcard stamps and Hemingway stamps.
After putting the groceries away, and taking out a frozen pizza and stuffing it in the oven, I drop my pants to the floor.
Kind of a sad existence. Come home, drop your pants on the ground. Not like anyone is going to see it, yet it still makes me feel, I don’t know, awful? Poor? Trashy? Hell, who cares. I’m comfortable not having long pants and shoes on now. I just don’t like wearing them anymore.
Here’s to living somewhere that is hot all the time. Anyone know a way to get a job in Ecuador? When you can’t speak Spanish?
Speaking of, a few days ago, I was in the office talking about wanting to move to Cuba. No one understood it. Why, they asked, would anyone want to do that? It’s dirty there. It’s under Communist rule. They drive shitty cars.
I said “Exactly. And, it’s a freaking island paradise. I look around Jacksonville, North Carolina, and all I see is dipshit Marines driving their sooped up cars and flying the flag. Not really understanding much about why they are doing either, I would hazard to guess. A few, I’ll agree, know what’s going on, but there is a reason they used to be called the few, the proud, etc…
Back to walking around in underwear. I wonder if I’d do this if I had neighbors? Well, I did it in my apartment. I didn’t do it in my sister’s house.
This is the shit that goes through my mind. I’m a waste sometimes, that’s for sure. Sometimes?
***
What the fuck moments, like Booger tells Lestat are good for the soul.
I took a small one a couple days ago by shaving my head. No big deal when you think about it, but when you’re the person doing it for the first time it is. But then you do it, and it wasn’t a big deal.
Like kissing a girl for the first time. That first time is nerve-wracking. Well, for me it is. I’m sure for some dudes it’s nothing. It’s like taking a pee or shooting a basketball. In other words, routine. I’m glad it has never been like that for me. I couldn’t imagine it being anything but a magical moment. Even the bad ones. You get so damn scared, so petrified. What if she doesn’t want to kiss? What if she turns her head? What if she smacks me? Those thoughts have all popped into my head.
I’ve also been so scared that I didn’t do it. Only one of those times did I regret it. And only twice did I not end up ever kissing her. And of those, only one is a “regret” so to speak. I still think about that girl from time to time. But that’s no cause for shock with me and my mindset. She’s completely disappeared, which is extremely tough in this internet age. I guess if I knew the high school she went to, I might be able to find her. Or how old she really was. It’s funny, I always assumed she was younger than me, but I now believe she was probably a year older. If anyone has a way to find someone that apparently isn’t on the internet, let me know. Oh, and it needs to be free. I’m broke. Always have been, always will be it seems. But that could just be the pessimist in me.
Hell, I know I’m going to fall in love again. In many ways, it happens to a degree most days. Just that degree is usually 1 not 100.
So, I guess I should say this:
“I’m going to not be in debt one day. I’m going to own a bar, a bar that has bands. And hopefully, one day, Lucero will play that bar. I won’t say, they will, because they could break up. They could hit the “big time” or whatever. But I will one day make these things happen.”
And then I’ll be happy. Happier than a giraffe drinking. Or a monkey curling. And definitely more so than a cat flushing a toilet.
After putting the groceries away, and taking out a frozen pizza and stuffing it in the oven, I drop my pants to the floor.
Kind of a sad existence. Come home, drop your pants on the ground. Not like anyone is going to see it, yet it still makes me feel, I don’t know, awful? Poor? Trashy? Hell, who cares. I’m comfortable not having long pants and shoes on now. I just don’t like wearing them anymore.
Here’s to living somewhere that is hot all the time. Anyone know a way to get a job in Ecuador? When you can’t speak Spanish?
Speaking of, a few days ago, I was in the office talking about wanting to move to Cuba. No one understood it. Why, they asked, would anyone want to do that? It’s dirty there. It’s under Communist rule. They drive shitty cars.
I said “Exactly. And, it’s a freaking island paradise. I look around Jacksonville, North Carolina, and all I see is dipshit Marines driving their sooped up cars and flying the flag. Not really understanding much about why they are doing either, I would hazard to guess. A few, I’ll agree, know what’s going on, but there is a reason they used to be called the few, the proud, etc…
Back to walking around in underwear. I wonder if I’d do this if I had neighbors? Well, I did it in my apartment. I didn’t do it in my sister’s house.
This is the shit that goes through my mind. I’m a waste sometimes, that’s for sure. Sometimes?
***
What the fuck moments, like Booger tells Lestat are good for the soul.
I took a small one a couple days ago by shaving my head. No big deal when you think about it, but when you’re the person doing it for the first time it is. But then you do it, and it wasn’t a big deal.
Like kissing a girl for the first time. That first time is nerve-wracking. Well, for me it is. I’m sure for some dudes it’s nothing. It’s like taking a pee or shooting a basketball. In other words, routine. I’m glad it has never been like that for me. I couldn’t imagine it being anything but a magical moment. Even the bad ones. You get so damn scared, so petrified. What if she doesn’t want to kiss? What if she turns her head? What if she smacks me? Those thoughts have all popped into my head.
I’ve also been so scared that I didn’t do it. Only one of those times did I regret it. And only twice did I not end up ever kissing her. And of those, only one is a “regret” so to speak. I still think about that girl from time to time. But that’s no cause for shock with me and my mindset. She’s completely disappeared, which is extremely tough in this internet age. I guess if I knew the high school she went to, I might be able to find her. Or how old she really was. It’s funny, I always assumed she was younger than me, but I now believe she was probably a year older. If anyone has a way to find someone that apparently isn’t on the internet, let me know. Oh, and it needs to be free. I’m broke. Always have been, always will be it seems. But that could just be the pessimist in me.
Hell, I know I’m going to fall in love again. In many ways, it happens to a degree most days. Just that degree is usually 1 not 100.
So, I guess I should say this:
“I’m going to not be in debt one day. I’m going to own a bar, a bar that has bands. And hopefully, one day, Lucero will play that bar. I won’t say, they will, because they could break up. They could hit the “big time” or whatever. But I will one day make these things happen.”
And then I’ll be happy. Happier than a giraffe drinking. Or a monkey curling. And definitely more so than a cat flushing a toilet.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
bad haiku
It had to happen.
But only what, four, five nights in?
Yep. Here I sit not wanting to type anything. Had a couple of friends stop by tonight. Drank a couple of beers. Turned on the air conditioning, and then it got to be almost 3 a.m. and they left.
So, here I sit, wondering what to type about. Work was boring. After work looked to be uninteresting as I came home and watched the UFC fights. And now, instead of being creative, I’m doing another blog entry as writing. And Word doesn’t recognize blog as a word. It must not exist.
Like ass-hattery. Or half-assery.
Thoughts of hurricanes tossed around today. How to get a ‘hurricane pass’ that allows me to come back to my house after an evacuation. That’ll be interesting. I mean, I do live on a sand bar. However, I don’t think I’ll evacuate if one happens. I’ll drive my car across the bridge before the “state of emergency” and leave it on the mainland and walk or bike back. And then watch the waves crash up against my house until the time comes when you realize you should have left and it’s too late. Maybe, that’ll be the reason that I haven’t been able to sell the red shark. She’ll be my savior that day/night of the hurricane?
At leas then she’ll remind me of things other than redheads that fucked my life up.
Ha. It still bothers me.
Why am I so tortured by something that happened in 2006? It’s 2010, closer to 2011 at this point and I’m still haunted by that shit. Fuck. I don’t want to be such a sensitive, stupid, naïve, dumb, fucked up person. Yet, I don’t see to be able to stop it.
I don’t write songs about it. I only write the beginnings of short stories about it. Over and over again. I threw away notebooks full of this shit. Some of it quite well written. There was at least a screenplay in there somewhere…
But anyways…
I’d like to think that it won’t bother me one day. But I don’t have much confidence in that. Experience sort of points in that direction. And no matter what anyone tells me, says to me, lies to me, it always clings. There’s a reason Truman was so attached to that God damn footlocker.
Ahhh….footlockers. They tell the tale don’t they? I have a new one now. Even though I’ve had it for years now, it’s still the “new” one. It never held my “bar” back in the old college dorm room days. It doesn’t have a cut out from a Moosehead sixer on it. It does, however, have chicken scratch from a kid on it. A kid that called me dad for a little while. A kid, that in our last conversation, told me he wanted me to be his dad.
Fuck. That depressed the shit out of me. I hope I’m at 750 words. But I know I’m not.
So, any ideas?
Oh. Today I signed up for a new “discount” card at Lowe’s Foods. Yeah, that’s not exactly breaking news, but it was the first time I’ve signed up for one of those things in a loooooooooong time. It was to replace the one that was in Emily’s name. It had to happen. I had to do it. Just another step toward whatever the next place is … but as I’m filling out the computerized form (no paper anymore) I find myself doing what I used to always do. I filled it out as Henry Chinaski. Is that a sad thing? Or is it just inspired? I don’t know really… It’s been a few years now since I’ve last received a piece of e-mail for Henry C. And a lot longer since I got a letter.
Boo.
This is the first time in a long time that I have writer’s block while drunk. Well, I’ve had seven or eight beers, which in the new employed but still verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry broke life of Randy is a lot. Maybe it’s the actual pressure of trying to come up with a minimum of 750 words EVERY day. But, it has to happen. I has to happen.
And it will happen.
Fuck you doubting assholes, aka, my brain.
This is certainly no better than all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, but it may regress into that…there’s always hope.
(Bad) Haiku
I miss you misses
Every single fucking day
Why did you leave? Huh?
But only what, four, five nights in?
Yep. Here I sit not wanting to type anything. Had a couple of friends stop by tonight. Drank a couple of beers. Turned on the air conditioning, and then it got to be almost 3 a.m. and they left.
So, here I sit, wondering what to type about. Work was boring. After work looked to be uninteresting as I came home and watched the UFC fights. And now, instead of being creative, I’m doing another blog entry as writing. And Word doesn’t recognize blog as a word. It must not exist.
Like ass-hattery. Or half-assery.
Thoughts of hurricanes tossed around today. How to get a ‘hurricane pass’ that allows me to come back to my house after an evacuation. That’ll be interesting. I mean, I do live on a sand bar. However, I don’t think I’ll evacuate if one happens. I’ll drive my car across the bridge before the “state of emergency” and leave it on the mainland and walk or bike back. And then watch the waves crash up against my house until the time comes when you realize you should have left and it’s too late. Maybe, that’ll be the reason that I haven’t been able to sell the red shark. She’ll be my savior that day/night of the hurricane?
At leas then she’ll remind me of things other than redheads that fucked my life up.
Ha. It still bothers me.
Why am I so tortured by something that happened in 2006? It’s 2010, closer to 2011 at this point and I’m still haunted by that shit. Fuck. I don’t want to be such a sensitive, stupid, naïve, dumb, fucked up person. Yet, I don’t see to be able to stop it.
I don’t write songs about it. I only write the beginnings of short stories about it. Over and over again. I threw away notebooks full of this shit. Some of it quite well written. There was at least a screenplay in there somewhere…
But anyways…
I’d like to think that it won’t bother me one day. But I don’t have much confidence in that. Experience sort of points in that direction. And no matter what anyone tells me, says to me, lies to me, it always clings. There’s a reason Truman was so attached to that God damn footlocker.
Ahhh….footlockers. They tell the tale don’t they? I have a new one now. Even though I’ve had it for years now, it’s still the “new” one. It never held my “bar” back in the old college dorm room days. It doesn’t have a cut out from a Moosehead sixer on it. It does, however, have chicken scratch from a kid on it. A kid that called me dad for a little while. A kid, that in our last conversation, told me he wanted me to be his dad.
Fuck. That depressed the shit out of me. I hope I’m at 750 words. But I know I’m not.
So, any ideas?
Oh. Today I signed up for a new “discount” card at Lowe’s Foods. Yeah, that’s not exactly breaking news, but it was the first time I’ve signed up for one of those things in a loooooooooong time. It was to replace the one that was in Emily’s name. It had to happen. I had to do it. Just another step toward whatever the next place is … but as I’m filling out the computerized form (no paper anymore) I find myself doing what I used to always do. I filled it out as Henry Chinaski. Is that a sad thing? Or is it just inspired? I don’t know really… It’s been a few years now since I’ve last received a piece of e-mail for Henry C. And a lot longer since I got a letter.
Boo.
This is the first time in a long time that I have writer’s block while drunk. Well, I’ve had seven or eight beers, which in the new employed but still verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry broke life of Randy is a lot. Maybe it’s the actual pressure of trying to come up with a minimum of 750 words EVERY day. But, it has to happen. I has to happen.
And it will happen.
Fuck you doubting assholes, aka, my brain.
This is certainly no better than all work and no play makes jack a dull boy, but it may regress into that…there’s always hope.
(Bad) Haiku
I miss you misses
Every single fucking day
Why did you leave? Huh?
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