I’m sitting alone in my shitty house with a not-so shitty location. At least during the summer. Right now, however, it’s winter. And cold. Snow will be on the ground by this time tomorrow. I won’t have anyone to cuddle with. To fuck. To even leer at. Unless someone happens upon the place while I’m outside tomorrow afternoon, because I’ll sleep in. Very late. I do that. Every day, usually. Even when I’m working. Some would say that’s lazy. Counter productive. I won’t disagree. Won’t agree either. But if a woman happens by and sees me in my soccer socks and short shorts, eating peanuts out of a can and thinks “damn, that’s hot,” then I’m in business.
Not counting my chickens.
Speaking of chickens, I wonder if chicken heads still think when they’re cut off. I mean, the body still runs around. Does the head still think?
Thinking is about all I do nowadays. I went to a buddy’s house yesterday. To get drunk, supposedly, and watch his six month old do six month old things. I drank four beers, ate some crappy frozen pizza and got a backache looking up at his giant television that’s hung in a terrible place on the wall for the person sitting on the left side of his giant leather couch -- me, on this night.
I could have done all those things -- minus the backache and giant television and baby and human contact other than me, most likely masturbating -- at home. I guess I made the right decision. I got a free haircut out of the deal. And a night’s sleep with actual heat. Although my sinuses get all fucked up when I sleep in heat. So now, my throat is itchy and my body is covered with static.
Maybe I’m never happy?
I spent a day at work. Did the late paper tonight out of choice. It was a good choice. There were more pages and that kept me occupied longer than the early two would have. I don’t understand why Grimace, which is the name I have applied the big, fat guy who works with me, stays in the office so long after he’s done. I have no life, and I’m assuming he has no life either. But I finish, I leave. I don’t want to be there, if anywhere. Oh well. I spent too many years of my life wanting to be in a newsroom. They’re sad places now. Empty cubicles and young people who don’t know the difference between their and there, let alone how to get a news story without a press release.
The Chicago paper put the wrong photo on their front page of a Hispanic baseball player that became a Cub. Some people tried to make it a race thing. If he’d been white and all that. Well, more than one paper fucked it up. And the source of the fuck up finally became known -- a bad cutline by the original photog with the AP. Gasp! A photog who fucks up a cutline? Anyways. Of course it shouldn’t have happened, and I believe up until about 2005 or so, there’s no way it would have happened. Now? All bets off.
One comment on a story about it I saw really made me want to puke. “That’s why newspapers are dead. All the Web sites just fixed it. You can’t just change a photo on 1,000s of newspapers.” Yeah, he/she is right (and wouldn’t it be funny if he/she was a ladyboy?), but … you’re also not held accountable for your fuckups. And the short attention span of he/she won’t remember that the web site always fucks shit up. But he/she will remember that one fuck up from the paper. Because it was on paper.
What the fuck is wrong with this country? The potential next president, put targets on congressional districts, and now months later is saying they weren’t crosshairs. Fuck you. They were. Own it. I’d actually have one once of respect for you if you admitted, that in fucking hindsight, it may have been crude. But instead, you lie. Fuck people.
I take responsibility for my fuck ups. I shit my career down the drain. I charged up my credit cards. I made really bad decisions about not wearing a rubber. I eat bad food. I drink too much. I didn’t brush my teeth enough in my 20s. I didn’t get the oil changed in my car for over 65,000 miles. Yeah, fuck it. I’m a pretty stupid guy sometimes. But, I keep trying.
I’m also going to New Orleans just for the hell of it. I’m starting to get my old itch back. Or, I’m finally allowing myself to fucking scratch it again. Just do it. See what the fuck comes of it. If I fail, fuck it. I took a class at UVA once. I was in over my head. Failing it. I didn’t study for the final. But, I still took it. Did well enough to get a D+ in the freaking class. Sometimes, the brain is a wonderful thing. Even when most of the time it isn’t.
It stinks in here. I’m done.
Showing posts with label 888 words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 888 words. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Thursday, October 14, 2010
the corpse, chapter 1/2
With a simple decision to shave my face, I went from looking like Jeff Bridges to Vince Neil.
Not the “Home Sweet Home” version at all. More the celebrity plastic surgery on VH1 version.
Anyway, just felt I had to type that. On to something else…
***
Well, that was a refreshing sleep. It seems like I’ve been in bed for days. That’s what I remember thinking that morning.
The feeling of euphoria didn’t last for long. Soon, it became apparent, super apparent that something was amiss.
My first clue was the inability to get out of bed. The desire was there, for sure. It wasn’t for the normal reasons however. Wasn’t hungry. Did not need to pee. In fact, my bladder felt uncommonly empty. As did my bowels. Why I would notice such a thing, I hadn’t clue.
Suddenly it dawned on me. I couldn’t close my eyes. I wasn’t blinking at all. There was not way to shut out the light. And it appeared to be a pretty sunny day outside, especially for early December.
Did I have a stroke in my sleep. That was my first assumption. That’s kind of been my go-to way of … Shit, now it makes some sense.
I’m dead.
Not being a very religious person, always holding on to the belief of “being a believer, but not really sure of what”, I always wondered if the soul just stays put. And how horrible that would be.
Does it slowly flicker out instead of bursting out -- hence all of the great white lights folks see in near-death experiences.
But I am obviously still inside this carcass at the moment. My view of the world is the wood paneling that this old house is completely covered with. And my dresser. Same dresser I’ve had since I was a kid. I finally moved it with me to this place. At the age of 39. Been all over the country, but never took anything but clothes, Cds and stereo equipment.
I can see my cell phone. I wonder when someone will try to call?
Most likely, it will be someone from work. Trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t show up. First day, it’ll be a simple question. Second day, an angry one. Probably by the third day, they’ll just figure I up and quit on them.
No real concern will come from there.
Next on that list? I’m supposed to go to Richmond in two weeks. When I don’t show up, I’ll get a text. I won’t answer. Which will lead to a call. Which I won’t answer.
It’ll die there. Ha.
Two weeks later, I’m supposed to see a concert in Baltimore.
The text will come the day before. No answer.
A call the next day.
That may spark some interest. May.
By then, my corpse will be nice and ripe. No air conditioning or heat in the place. If it’s a cold December, who knows, it may end up being like a fridge and keep me from spoiling everyone’s day.
My mailbox will be full of bills by now. Unpaid ones. Phone will start ringing as bill collection agencies start to troll.
The rent goes unpaid.
Landlord sends a letter. Then a phone call.
Finally, after it’s two months late, they show up to knock on the door.
Going inside, they see a rotting mass of Zatarain’s on the table.
Into my room, the landlord ventures. Seeing me, still in bed. A sheet drawn over my head.
If I’m still in there, I’ll be more worried about being seen naked.
He grabs at the sheet, pulling it back.
Gruesome huh?
How long do you think it would take until someone found your body?
But, I’ve only been here a little while now. Time to take stock of what’s going on here. Am I really dead? I guess I should figure that out.
And the only way to find that out is to wait. I can see myself. My hairy belly at least. My feet. My dick. I look up and I see my hair. Is this rational? Should I be wondering this.
Now, since I’m still inside this shell, can I start to wonder if I’ll feel anything when they cut me up for an autopsy. This guy’s too young to have died of natural causes, they’ll most likely say.
But I didn’t kill myself. Heck, last night, or the last night I remember was pretty good. I went out to the local pub, had a few solo drinks before the bartender started flirting with me. I’d always dreamed of a barkeep taking an interest in me. And this time, she actually did.
Now, I’m a realist and understand she flirts with every guy that buys a $2 Yuengling. It’s her way of getting paid. But I’m the only person in the bar by 2 a.m. and she’s still standing in front of me, talking. We’re talking about writing. Appears she wants to be one. I tell her I want to be a bartender.
By 4 a.m. she’s done cleaning, I’m done drinking. I ask her where she lives. She says down the street. Pointing west. I sigh and point east for me. The last thing I remember was her saying “well, looks like I’m heading east tonight…”
Not the “Home Sweet Home” version at all. More the celebrity plastic surgery on VH1 version.
Anyway, just felt I had to type that. On to something else…
***
Well, that was a refreshing sleep. It seems like I’ve been in bed for days. That’s what I remember thinking that morning.
The feeling of euphoria didn’t last for long. Soon, it became apparent, super apparent that something was amiss.
My first clue was the inability to get out of bed. The desire was there, for sure. It wasn’t for the normal reasons however. Wasn’t hungry. Did not need to pee. In fact, my bladder felt uncommonly empty. As did my bowels. Why I would notice such a thing, I hadn’t clue.
Suddenly it dawned on me. I couldn’t close my eyes. I wasn’t blinking at all. There was not way to shut out the light. And it appeared to be a pretty sunny day outside, especially for early December.
Did I have a stroke in my sleep. That was my first assumption. That’s kind of been my go-to way of … Shit, now it makes some sense.
I’m dead.
Not being a very religious person, always holding on to the belief of “being a believer, but not really sure of what”, I always wondered if the soul just stays put. And how horrible that would be.
Does it slowly flicker out instead of bursting out -- hence all of the great white lights folks see in near-death experiences.
But I am obviously still inside this carcass at the moment. My view of the world is the wood paneling that this old house is completely covered with. And my dresser. Same dresser I’ve had since I was a kid. I finally moved it with me to this place. At the age of 39. Been all over the country, but never took anything but clothes, Cds and stereo equipment.
I can see my cell phone. I wonder when someone will try to call?
Most likely, it will be someone from work. Trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t show up. First day, it’ll be a simple question. Second day, an angry one. Probably by the third day, they’ll just figure I up and quit on them.
No real concern will come from there.
Next on that list? I’m supposed to go to Richmond in two weeks. When I don’t show up, I’ll get a text. I won’t answer. Which will lead to a call. Which I won’t answer.
It’ll die there. Ha.
Two weeks later, I’m supposed to see a concert in Baltimore.
The text will come the day before. No answer.
A call the next day.
That may spark some interest. May.
By then, my corpse will be nice and ripe. No air conditioning or heat in the place. If it’s a cold December, who knows, it may end up being like a fridge and keep me from spoiling everyone’s day.
My mailbox will be full of bills by now. Unpaid ones. Phone will start ringing as bill collection agencies start to troll.
The rent goes unpaid.
Landlord sends a letter. Then a phone call.
Finally, after it’s two months late, they show up to knock on the door.
Going inside, they see a rotting mass of Zatarain’s on the table.
Into my room, the landlord ventures. Seeing me, still in bed. A sheet drawn over my head.
If I’m still in there, I’ll be more worried about being seen naked.
He grabs at the sheet, pulling it back.
Gruesome huh?
How long do you think it would take until someone found your body?
But, I’ve only been here a little while now. Time to take stock of what’s going on here. Am I really dead? I guess I should figure that out.
And the only way to find that out is to wait. I can see myself. My hairy belly at least. My feet. My dick. I look up and I see my hair. Is this rational? Should I be wondering this.
Now, since I’m still inside this shell, can I start to wonder if I’ll feel anything when they cut me up for an autopsy. This guy’s too young to have died of natural causes, they’ll most likely say.
But I didn’t kill myself. Heck, last night, or the last night I remember was pretty good. I went out to the local pub, had a few solo drinks before the bartender started flirting with me. I’d always dreamed of a barkeep taking an interest in me. And this time, she actually did.
Now, I’m a realist and understand she flirts with every guy that buys a $2 Yuengling. It’s her way of getting paid. But I’m the only person in the bar by 2 a.m. and she’s still standing in front of me, talking. We’re talking about writing. Appears she wants to be one. I tell her I want to be a bartender.
By 4 a.m. she’s done cleaning, I’m done drinking. I ask her where she lives. She says down the street. Pointing west. I sigh and point east for me. The last thing I remember was her saying “well, looks like I’m heading east tonight…”
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