Your Two Glass Eyes

My friend Joey here is a misanthropic mess. He misses his old life. Another life in which he believes he was meant for. Sitting here beside me with his head bent down on his stomach, I can only console him  at arms length, literally. He has been temporarily (if temporarily) orphaned. A friend moved away from him and so I took on to being his friend. Or something along those lines. 

Joey is a drunk. He's a protesting and banter-bartering drunk from the other side of my old neighborhood. On some nights when I take into my dull inexistence to be willfully and joyously (not to mention limitlessly) plastered, Joey sits beside me and pours me another one. If it's empty, he'll fill it. If it's sitting, he'll sip it. If it spills, he'll leave it. He'll laugh and wait for me to clean up. For as long as I've known him (though I haven't known him for too, too long), he spends more time watching me dead and drunk than I to him. I saw him once though, slobbering on his belly and saying nothing in the corner by my desk (where you'll normally find him). I only sat at the foot of my bed near him, saying nothing. Silence had been my best bet, you never know with Joey, but he knew this about me. I pitied the poor bastard. 

This inanimate, sad thing. Joey the misanthropic mess. If given any length of time--if given enough length of time, the human emotion involuntarily spreads onto the world. To this still world. The world inside of a quiet room. An always quiet room. Where lights flicker on at night and off by morning. Where heating vents whir the volume and the silence of the hours. Where dust gathers and colonizes. Where candles burn until blown out. Clothes on nobody. Books neatly erect in a case. Just like my drunken friend beside me, if given enough time, the strings of the mind tugging at desperation and hopelessness could create any sadness from nothing. 

Post sciptum. 

It could be the alcohol, but sadness builds no matter. 

Happy Dre; An Extension Stay

Had the pile of mattresses not been there outside, stacked on top of each other, we wouldn't have ever wanted to remember the night. I remember the pills that kept us awake. The pills that pointed our direction to the mattresses for hours on. Well, it was a long night, fucking murderous and slow, and we were glued to the couch of a hotel room where we've imaginatively and creatively slayed ourselves. There was brain smeared on the door of the freezer, a head in the oven, an orphan drowned in the tub, and me, swinging by the neck inside the closet, in front of the sink mirror. Smiling. Probably. 

For story line purposes, I'll have the creep as the antagonist, the blood and cum sucking creep, guzzling beer and whatever was left of the breathable air in that puny room. When the rest of the party scudded on out the door, the creep, I swear, inhaled the air around the orphan with his feet 8 inches apart and his mouth salivating. On the couch, a three dimensional glare reflected on all four walls of the room. The head pulled something from under the couch. Gracefully and gleefully, she pulled out a semi-automatic Remington 1100, given to us by God himself. A gift, he said. Or at least it was a holy enough moment to feel like God. We discussed who should cock and who should shoot. Or if the cocker should also be the shooter. Or if we should all just pass it around. And all the while, the creep shared stories to make himself hard. Conclusively, we stood up and the head cocked it. She turned to me and handed me the gun then innocently flashed me a grin. A gleaming one. Avec plaisir, I took it in my hands, pointed at the creep who paid no mind to the end (although protesting arrogantly through a slur of his incessant mouth), I pulled back the trigger. I shrugged my shoulders at the sound of a bang followed by a thud. None of us looked around or moved a second after. Just standing, patiently, with relief, then a sigh.  The splattered brain walked up to the lifeless creep and motioned the head to examine. Synchronously, they grabbed him by the wrists and ankles, walked him to the window, counted 1, 2, 3, 4, swinging, and tossed the filth out the window and down just missing a perfectly trimmed, square bush. The orphan sound asleep, we rested. 

But in the morning, as the good would have it, the head in the oven and I walked down the stairs to the pile of stained, filthy mattresses to knock the sun down with us. We left the orphan passed out on the queen-sized mattress and the splattered brain on the couch. They drooled while our eyes dilated to a morning peek. Eventually, the orphan awoke and joined us on top of the mattresses. We discussed how we are most likely sitting on dried up semen. Most likely. 

I Wish to Be Seymour Glass

"I suspect people of plotting to make me happy."

He wishes to be a dead cat. How I wish to be a dead cat.

New York Day 3, Pt. 2; Concussive Tourism

HERE I PRESENT A SERIES OF BLURRY PICTURES MY MOTHER TOOK OF US ICE SKATING FROM BEHIND A GLASS WALL.

This is me after I blacked out. 

This is them waiting in the emergency room.

This is me after my CT scan.

This is a horse carriage.

Lamegay

I'm sorry my NY photos aren't cool.

Sorry.

I'm not really sorry.

Fuck yourselves.

New York Day 3, Pt. 1; Lost Tourists (via dad's)

A Tuesday

It's morning and I am once again endlessly contemplating the impetuous yet critical decisions I am making. I concluded that I, in no way, shape, or form, am fearless. In fact, I am horrified. That's an overstatement. I'm certainly not horrified. But my inescapable indifference to everything ......................blows.  Can't dream big. I most certainly can't do big. Or if I do dream big, I eventually find my way to the same goddamn wall that I seem to constantly be in front of. The godless, non-believing, life-blowing wall that has found me since my innocence went away. Maybe went away isn't the right description. Maybe innocence isn't the right word. My youth, perhaps. The very end of it destroyed me as a human being. It was the most beautiful and infinitely satisfying end to the life I hadn't known I had. The moment I realized that it was gone, the moment I realized that I even had it. And now I'm here, effortlessly wallowing at the days, the faces, places, and the immeasurable moments that my life had me. Sulking like a child. But I'm more composed now. I coolly, cynically, and comically endure my days now. The calm before the dead of my peeking adulthood. Or if I'm lucky, it'll get better from here. But only if I escape the discontentment. Only if I finally, if ever and goddamn hopefully, escape the astonishing and disappointing realizations of meaninglessness. 

I propose a toast to myself and my undying need to be as depressing as always expected. 

PS. Even New York dreams can't fucking sever me from this. 

New York Day 2, Pt. 2; Tourism Never Ends