RECENTLY I WAS INVOLVED WITH A MAN who probably couldn’t stand me in certain circumstances because of my propensity to leave, run and hide after sex, the afterglow when he wanted to share closeness or proximity or other emotional things that I never have been able to quite understand because it never made sense why people would want to share sleep together once the sex was over. For some reason that might make sense to other similarly-situated people, he wanted a relationship which he defined as closeness and being together for a long period of time, something that I cannot stand. I cherish my alone time so much so that I necessarily try to distance myself from others and I cannot understand the need to be with someone longer than it takes to get off. This man probably admired me to a certain degree but became disillusioned with the fact that I was disingenuous in nature, at least so far as I tried and failed to fake my emotions sincerely. I’ve never been very good at faking sincerity or real sincerity for that matter, just trying to nod my head and smile when people were looking for that emotional connection or at the very least some flicker of recognition and understanding in my eyes, I strived, but it was not there, never there. It is something hard for me, to emulate others in this respect, the emotionally-savvy, and I guess to a certain extent I feel damned to do so because of the deceitfulness it employs and I’ve never been one to indulge psychopathic tendencies; I like being straightforward and honest. At the end I think he hated me and loved me at the same time, a contrary set of principles that cannot be resolved, and even still I feel nothing for him, the same nothing I felt for all the men who came before him. And I think I’m truly sorry for that. Of course I am always placated by the fact that there is another man around the corner that will serve the same selfish and shallow purposes, a man who will entertain me and one I can enjoy some time with, doing time, just waiting, waiting, waiting for death.
TONIGHT, first night in a long string of nights that I was able to sleep, almost immediate relief despite endorphin rush and in spite of all my obsessing over the slippage of time and the decay we are all slaves to by time, that ugly monster that just keeps rip, rip, ripping our youth away, day by day, but I did sleep, long and relaxing, the most that could be expected from someone like me, sleep coming without the aid of narcotics or bud, without smoking or shooting, lovely passing out in just time, different than regular, normal falling asleep that I have become so unaccustomed to on account of all vices, devices really, just being all available to me and helping me find momentary peace in the whirlwind world we currently live in where everything assaults my consciousness on a normal basis, pitiful things that make this world situationally reprehensible, and I have to make the most out of not revealing all the bitterness I feel when I am alone and vulnerable to the ghastly images of terrestrial life that assault my waking hours. In my sleep I might have dreamed, but different types of dreams that weren’t nightmares, typical unnerving sort of horrific fodder that the brain assails you with in another one of the most vulnerable times of night, the quiet dream sleep we all hope to attain, finding us almost too willing to take it lying down, and I did in fact dream a nice dream that I even remember now, 10 or 15 hours later, writing it down, something triggering a memory, probably reading Kerouac and his nascent almost accidental mentioning of Greenland and I think about my dream and how Greenland was probably a factor in it, as it is in most dreams that I have because I want to visit there sometime just to say that I did. Greenland must be the most fantastic place that most people we meet have never been, a country or a continent (?) on its own, separated by angry seas and slowly melting icebergs, caps that warn us to stay away, but I can’t, don’t really want to, because I dream of Greenland frequently and want to visit it for nothing more than the stories and the ability to state with honesty, arrogance and pride, “I’ve been to Greenland.” In my dream, I was in Greenland, beyond in fact, to the Arctic circle, which in my dream I think was actually the Antarctic circle, but it was much smaller, I could see the slant of the globe, see it turn, an actual impossibility, but in my dream I was turning and yearning, Antarctica was the Arctic and the southern hemisphere was a non-factor, I was skirting by Greenland and traversing the globe in seconds flat, not just because of the heightened speed of dream time, but because I was on a mission, listen, this was the best dream that I have ever forgotten.
I WOKE UP THIS MORNING, 6:19 AM, Cali Time, as if that matters, pacific time is just another word for pretention, but it’s an entirely different type of pretention than they have on the East Coast and I almost prefer the East Coast because despite the weather anomalies I do feel like I might lead a slightly cooler life in New York as opposed to Los Angeles. It ended up being closer to 7:09 AM when I actually decided to make something of the day, so many in a row wasted because of my indifference and also because I have still been unable to make good on any of the promises that I have made, to myself or others, such a loser I am just repeating days after days and still maybe thinking, somehow, the tomorrow will be different. Definition of insanity is unlost by me as I make use of the waning day to write, before food makes me tired and lethargic, before responsibilities make me rationalize tired today, I’ll do more tomorrow morning after a run and a protein-loaded breakfast burrito. But ah me and then it’s too late because the sun is out and I want to go swimming and then comes afternoon where I submit to substances and try to write down some of the things that I thought about during the day. For one, I tried to recapture that endorphin high today; did the same thing as yesterday, more in fact, to see if I could feel something; I felt a little, there was a spark, but nowhere near the flash I felt yesterday. We are living in such a tragic world, a world where we cannot successfully create yesterday.
I’M BACK TO MY OLD WAYS TODAY because running faster and longer isn’t bringing back the endorphin rush of that one time, two days ago or three, where I was actually able to claim, reclaim something called a natural high, but today no such luck, so running back to the good old stuff, the charm of my disarm, the stuff that makes me high and momentarily, ephemerally semi-content, and the rationalizations are back too, the ones I must tell in order to turn every moment into an acceptable distortion of my life as I see it. Madness the things we go through to survive and thrive in our own eyes, paranoia embraced, even seen as some kind of ugly badge of honor, without it I might be lost or at the very least not myself, someone else who cannot enunciate, even though it can be quite hard to say what I think on the spot, standing next to the wooden podium, long fingers tapping, tapping, tapping, thinking about what I am going to respond with when he finishes talking, wondering if it sounds good or logical or true, judge looking down at me, punk kid, lazy haircut, stoned eyes, red and blurry, not even thirty, just treading water and hoping to toe the line between career and passion, knowing somehow almost intuitively that passion lies elsewhere, far far away from the legal world of boring “may it please the court” simple polite talk, but roped in and cuckolded nonetheless, making the best or striving anyhow in the moment when our eyes meet and we both know that there is no way for me to be persuasive enough to matter in the way we sort of think we should before everything starts. Next week is going to be hard, stressful, long-lasting, pitiful little week where money will come in but rituals and routines will take a backseat, and I know the mature thing to do is embrace it but I’ve spent so long being that punk ass kid with urgency of the mouth who needs to be semi-close to a keyboard so I can type down the thoughts that come to mind, the sentences of pure enigmatic, spatially eloquent and morose words that plainly indicate some whim that I feel must be written down, that I feel cannot be forgotten (and I forget so many of them when I am away), because if it is forgotten it will never be said, not in the way I would have said it and even if the feeling can later be represented or has already been represented in some way, it will not have the same hopelessly stimulating luster that I meant for it when I figured out the perfect way to say it and the words and the order and everything, all in my head. Such fleeting thoughts so rarely can be re-obtained once they have left the forefront of the mind. This is reason one why I don’t like to work.
TRIED AND FAILED TO REACH ME, reach out, throw a rope long enough to do more than just hang myself, such horrible images of asphyxia haunting pinnacle middle of the night wakened moments, 3 AM, and for some reason everything is so much more ghastly and terrifying at 3 AM, right in the thick of night, without light, sun so far away from rising, not Greenland now where the sun is always up, penetrating, worrying inhabitants for different reasons altogether, but the real 3 AM nights, in the nights of the other world, hold such terror because of the thoughts and realizations of demise, decay, death, stronger then somehow, overtaking the mind that tosses and turns with the body, somehow connected and yet on different tracks with different fates entirely, depending on philosophical lean I guess, but nonetheless 3 AM evokes a type of hysteria, paranoia, gripping big thoughts, racing heart, envisioning all the inevitabilities of deterioration, decomposition, degeneration, visions so overwhelmingly brutal and repugnant in my mind at night that my stomach turns and I, in all my glorious arrogance and cavalier indifference decide to make the ultimate compromise, a sacrifice of the soul so to speak (used here in strictly secular terms), the letting go of all the concerns that so willingly and eagerly attack my mind, almost vengefully so, let it all go so that for the time being I can embrace the ignorance that is bliss and get some much needed rest. Of course, and naturally so, 3 AM turns to 4 AM and somewhere in the depths of the 4 o’clock hour I think I eventually lose consciousness, become serene, almost accepting of the ugly fate we are doomed to go through as a product of life, a living being that has skin and blood and organs that will fail and decay, cobweb epoxy, given the stubborn passage of time, immortality an unimaginable dream, a hope, a bated-breath miracle narcissist spend countless hours thinking about, but even we must submit to exhaustion given time, a parallel simile for the final, inevitable call. They all failed to reach me, ME with my punkish hair and my slippery smile, so charming and devilish in a way, but also just totally accepting of anyone and everything as long as they don’t give me a reason not to, try very hard to not judge a book by its cover, as I’ve been judged, to give everyone or mostly everyone the chance to impress me, so I can experience everything there is and “dig” it all, get the kicks I need to get before this world is over and I am just floating along unconscious in some unknowable blackness, without a thought or a word or an inkling to describe it, notionless blackness, emptiness, indefinable and uninteresting, like a long sleep or an anesthetic coma where dreams do not exist, where time moves imperceptibly, where things are without your ability to document them, see them, hear them, feel them, read about them, where nonexistence rightly champions and pain and fear are sensations without meaning because everything becomes a sensation without meaning in the fathomless depths of the thing called death. Heaven, hell, afterlife, blackness, they are all the same in my head, in my mind, the place where logic resides, idealistic miracles pushed aside, not running, running, running to ultimate demise because who in their right mind knowingly, intentionally skips toward such things? Certainly not me.
I WAS OF COURSE SO HIGH I COULDN’T THINK STRAIGHT, fathom really, the things that were going on with any of my usual intensity, logic, rationality, all the cognitive processes of my brain that I usually use when I am out and about and trying to understand people, places and things in my purview that might matter in the present or off in the future sometime, maybe when I’m ninety-nine or one-o-nine, godforsaken bad luck to live that long, but even though I am terribly aloof and not all that good at noticing things, some say oblivious and I don’t mind, despite all that I do try sort of hard to pay attention to the goings-on around me so that people cannot accuse me of being that selfish asshole kid with the vacant eyes, hiding behind too long hair and aviators worn ironically because I am no hipster, despite what Shea insists. It was at this point when I was so high I couldn’t really figure out left from right, (I have trouble with that sober sometimes) that I see a guy that I think I know, well I know I know him because he knows me and he says to me, “Hey Lux” all casually and hopeful, which is proof positive that he does in fact know me and wants to converse with me and rekindle some kind of ambiguous relationship that I cannot now imagine or define, and I, like an asshole, don’t even try to think about how I might know him or what relationship we might have at one time had and I simply reply with “Hey you,” a simple elegant response that to an unobservant and unfamiliar ear might sound sincere, a forgetful disregard all disguised up in a trendy term of endearment so that he might not catch on, at least not immediately, to the fact that I have no idea who he is and what we might have meant to each other way back there in the black, forgetful abyss, or catch onto the fact that I am high, just trying to get by, strive to be invisible, that invisibility we all want when we are doing something that might put us in the negative limelight of society. He buys my act hook, line and sinker, and I’m glad for it, so glad, because I don’t like becoming immersed in awkward situations, not at all, and especially when people get all upset for me not remembering them because people like to be remembered and they absolutely hate being forgotten. He leans in for a hug and I reciprocate in kind and I wonder to myself how I forgot him because he seems very memorable, at least superficially and shallowly, the waters I swim in. He asks about what I have been up to and I give him a quick, vague response and immediately turn the question around on him because I hate talking about myself and revealing the nothing, nothing, nothing going on in my world and also, more significantly, turning questions around in order to suss out details about him, get him talking so that maybe I will remember him, who he was, who he is, who he could be. I want to know everything. The trouble is that he is not much of a talker, like me, two peas in one pod, and by the time he’s done telling me about his life I am no better informed than I was four minutes ago so we eventually make vague plans to get together and he says he has my number, which again makes me vex, it’s vexing, but I get over it quickly because he has to go and even though I’m just wandering I still have places to wander, so we bid our farewells and I realize that nothing will ever materialize because I’m too short-sighted to actually go through with any plan or promise I issue, and especially because soon I will be rushing off to New York for an unknown amount of time, mostly because I can and also because fall New York is absolutely beautiful. I continue walking down the street, which I actually think might be an avenue, never knowing the difference and being hard-pressed to acknowledge it anyway, I start to think about how nice the day is today, early morning, so much hope and prosperity, not trying to think about how adept I am at wasting it, liking the idea of embracing it, the morning, the hope, the prosperity, digging the day and how immaculately clear it is, dark, cerulean blue, not a cloud in the sky, not hazy or foggy or smoggy (this is LA), but just perfectly blue, reminding me suddenly of bright blue brilliant Dubrovnik morning, (fresh off boat from Greece, or was it Italy?) just walking along the harbor, rushing slightly, but not so much mad dashing, still trying to absorb and dig all of the greatness of the new country, Croatia, so long that I wanted to visit this place, so cool in such an important, unimaginable way, just stepping around, spring in my step, water to my right, looking for a beachside bank, an establishment in kind, that might, if I was lucky, if we were lucky, might trade the Euros in my pocket for Kuna, the Croatian currency, something impressive and economical enough to get us food and a bed for the night in the Dalmatian city by the sea, because, after all, Croatia had not become part of the European Union at the time in 2005.
HERE WE ARE IN 2014 (is it so?) too late for all of those great writers who thought up great lines in middle century times, all dead now, submitted to drugs, disease, the passage of inevitable time, too old and broken and past their prime to opine on things of today, technology, warp speed, new paradigms, and yet how can it possibly be that there are no others born with similar skills, especially if they are going out there and doing similar things, cross-world travels, dumb drug escapades, more friends and acquaintances than they deserve, maverick assholes, punks, jerks, indifferent cavalier fucks, how can it be that they cannot write similarly legendary stuff to be received in the same vein as Kerouac, Ginsberg, Cassady, Burroughs? Is it so that times have changed too much to not appreciate, unappreciate the words of the new generation, also rich and eloquent and grammatically relevant, by nothing more than beauty and prestige and thoughtless intrigue? It can’t be so, by mere numbers I must believe that something relevant can be received by this era, at least so far as literature matters, the actual skill, not just the masturbatory fodder of kids who are so willing to be deceived that they wait with bated breaths to receive the next defecation of a popular culture vulture. Why are we, the new, young writers relegated to dumbass thrillers, the kind of shitty aforementioned defecations of middle management mothers, the lazy fodder appealing to teenage masturbators, why is tried and true supernatural stories of unimpressive vampire glory the only thing that appeals to this ravaged century, why can’t those with true talent shine thru to greater bounds, the relevant bounds of those who used to know how to impress a footprint press, I want to know, why isn’t actual talent lauded instead of condemned by thousands, made to be something unruly, anarchistic, cruel, the product of narcotics truly, only, even if it’s actually good? No one cares about talent, my number one problem with the world today, modern constraints, how I hate how they only appreciate that ugly juvenile shit of preteen girls who are being tricked, goddamnit tricked, cruel indignities, into thinking that there is some kind of smoking hot man brooding with unkempt secrets just waiting to sweep them off their feet and love them forever, are we fucking kidding, can even preteens believe this? Is society so mean that they would teach their preadolescent girls that this is a reality, an actual probable truth that they might attain, sixteen, brilliant, waiting all night for the tock of the clock, and finally sixteen, can date boys and what are they left with? Reality? Oh for fuck’s sake I hope not! They call me some kind of asshole, atheist, cavalier maverick, but I would never try to trick a kid, ruin her life, make her think she’s going to find prince charming, dimples, six pack, genuine smile, even I can’t find a man like this because these men that they represent are fictional, fanatic, utterly too fantastic, for ordinary girls at least, only interested in waiffy models with crack addictions, they wouldn’t look twice at a fat girl with acne, or even a plain jane because they want the parade, and they won’t settle for less, so why, why would we praise those who deceive with fantasies, and delusions of grandeur? They don’t even reach these assessments, the kinds of stuff I think about, not because I can empathize or rationalize but because I sort of know guys and what they are like, and more importantly, significantly really, I want to write something truly great, something that does not rely on all that stupid, cunning shit, the shit that makes young readers wet, I don’t give a fuck about that, I care about true writing and that’s all I ever cared to portray, an array of real thoughts and emotions all dressed up in pretty writing, striving, enough to make me the kind of asshole little daughters are taught not to be.
EUPHORIA IS YOU FOR ME reads unnervingly bright in downtown Brooklyn on an overpass bridge, two bridges that look more like big-rig cargo capsules sticking across two buildings to me, an industrial autograph, a Hollywood set or some kind of scene set, canvas paint, society-sanctioned graffiti art, interested only in just walking thru Brooklyn and digging New York on its own, then downtown Brooklyn in particular, a pretty fucking awesome place that seemed so safe, rugged, rough but safe in its own right, my home for a couple weeks straight, and yet only ten years ago or less it was a huge downtrodden mess of dangerous souls, the ones who shoot, stab and steal, the ones who inject, prick and deal, and even though I wasn’t there then, ten years too young, growing up on the best coast, the west coast instead, hearing about 9-11 the conventional way, from far away, lamenting of course but having no recourse. I always could appreciate the struggle New York felt in the aftermath of such a horrendous ordeal, a terrible fate, and I tried to learn, I yearned to go east to New York and live in one of the most remarkable cities we have on planet EARTH, even if and in spite of those who might target such an iconic city to terrorize incessantly. After the attacks I was told that so many New Yorkers flooded to Brooklyn –- Park Slope, Williamsburg, the ironically named Dumbo, downtown, Cobble Hill, Prospect Heights, etcetera -- and made it their home away from Manhattan home, gentrification, urbanization, trendification, and all of the other processes that a neighborhood can go through to make it richer, more pretentious, and valuable, because at that time, it was safer than Manhattan. A decade later when I visited Brooklyn for almost the first time and realized how much it must have changed, I was in awe of the new and the old, the marriage, the blended nature of things, and it made me think of downtown Los Angeles, reminisce almost, of Flower and Hope Street, because the young and the old married there too, but years ago, perhaps out of necessity, or perhaps something else, Brooklyn making me think of Los Angeles and vice versa, such a weird way to start off a day that would lead to a two week vacation in the city of New York. Later I said, let’s run a course, the Jackie-O reservoir course because I like to run, jog, chase endorphin highs and other things -- no endorphin rush but that was back when I wasn’t getting them much -- and we ran straight through two, almost three times around, but that was after Brooklyn Bridge where we got stuck because shoes made feet hurt bad, and we were generally taking our time anyway to just traverse the entirety of New York in the first break of clouds offered, knowing that we wanted to see proper New York and all its glory, mission accomplished, being patient and young and able to rush around. I made use of shared glory, the thing bright lighted and underlined proudly, euphoria for all, and I took, saw all of New York, sat in bars and wrote stories and novels in my head, the things previously left unsaid, the weight of the memories to be read, I wanted to get out of my head, and I did, rushing, running fast, to depths of Brooklyn or across the river, Manhattan, Jersey, beers to drink, miles to think, subways in every direction, I love this mad, mad city.
I FEEL LIKE A SCUMBAG when I take the foil and chase the dragon, only because it seems like such an immense struggle to get the feeling that we all covet, but gotten so easy through a straw and some opium derivative and maybe also because I’ve never tried hard for anything, ambition being such a hard emotion for me to capture, cage and release, I’m really just bad at being a real kind of star, and every afternoon it seems might warrant some kind of interlude, something that might get me thinking of the right words and phrases to excite the nation, the world, even if it’s self-important, arrogant ramblings paralleling Kerouac’s tape recordings, because how many people really know how to correctly construct sentences, at least in a way that causes reader to awe in something resembling amazement, speak of need in reticence unrelenting, the kind of writing that means something in the midst of nothing, dribble, scribble, unrepentant nonsense currently being processed and spit out to the world today, I hate it. If I could circumnavigate and figure out a way to tread above the defecations of today’s prized artists, I might survive them all and become a historian of pathetic normal times, 2000s, the years that mark the realm, the dire contingencies of painted normalcies, everyone trying so hard to be something they’re not, embracing a different kind of hate, hate for those who have no patience to wait, for the times that appreciate other kinds, the kinds that can write, the kids that might fight, and say what they mean and mean what they say, what a fucking sight?!? Is it so terrible to be against the grain? Is there a right and wrong for those intelligent enough to have their own morality? I should hope not.
IT HAPPENED ONE AFTERNOON that bled into night, as most afternoons tend to do, and I showed up in Orange County, somewhere near Orange I suppose, only really knowing this was the location despite all the vagueness and ambiguities around, that surrounded me by virtue of what it was, still I knew because it was sort of near the train station that looked familiar having walked past it and driven past it for three years of my early twenties, and also because later Brennan would announce that she had to walk there to catch a bus of all things, not a train, and I would drive by and see her there waiting and wonder if I should have just offered her a ride. Earlier though, in the afternoon at the house, someone’s house I didn’t know, we were all hanging out, Brennan and Tom and Kurt and Nick and me, I think there were others too from school, and we were drinking and socializing and discussing stupid little silly and trivial things, as we all tend to do when we drink, and I think I was having an alright time even though I kept remembering all of my high school friends from years back and how I was the only one left that was still shooting heroin on a semi-regular basis, here and there but pretty regular, the rest of that gang growing up a little more and taking on jobs and responsibilities and things, and me just looking for the next kick, the next degree I could get, intellectuality prized above anything else, the perpetuality of a student desired, and at least these graduate school friends of mine could see some use in mind-enhancing substances, at least in theory. Later though, when everyone was heading out, Brennan to catch her bus back north, Tom to slink back toward campus to see if he could hook up with an undergrad that would board him for the night (fifteen years his junior at this point), Kurt to go to sleep (he was already suffering from a cold before the night) so he could be awake and alert for his job that he strongly disliked, and Nick to go home to his screaming child and his wife, I began to realize internally that I really had none of those really good excuses for leaving so I was just leaving because everyone else was leaving and I realized that despite my avid assertions to the contrary, I really am nothing more than a piece of shit junky with slight narcissistic personality disorder trying to live shamelessly, unsanctimoniously, out of some futile and misplaced attempt at nobility, humility, etcetera, so as to maybe make it someday, truly MAKE IT, in a world that I am sixty years too late for. Ah me!
THE DISTRESS OF INTERNAL TURMOIL LIES IN THE UNKNOWING, mysterious vortex of the body’s infinite, enigmatic complexities, wondering how cells, molecules, organs, etcetera are breaking down, submitting to decay, which one will betray me first, hard to say, only because it could be almost anything, no way to tell for sure what is failing and why, the why is probably the most damning, spending nights up wondering, how did everything turn from beautiful and thriving to old and decaying. When there’s a feeling or an ailment I cannot identify, my mind naturally flies to that paranoid place, paranoing on every little thing, what could it be, what does this mean, will I die, I’m likely to try to get others to anonymously assuage me, thinking safety in numbers, but they do not have my best interests at heart, they want me to panic, to assume the worst, paranoia taking over every sane thought that crops up, just to get some kind of secret silent satisfaction, me being up to no good and worried because of it. Recently I will admit the idea that a parasite might have taken root in my uterus assailed me, what a burden, and while I’m not one to entertain parasites I’m also distinctly wary of doctors so I started thinking of mad other wild solutions, ancient Greek remedies, China came to mind. And here’s the problem, well at least one of them, it’s one thing to get pregnant when you’re with a man because then you can go get it taken care of together and feel on the same page and he pays of course because he was the one who insisted on no rubber in the first place and that’s fine, but then it’s a whole other thing entirely when you get pregnant and not with a man because then you have to go to the clinic by yourself, YOURSELF, and they won’t give you any narcotics because they will see it in your eyes that you like them too much, so they’ll offer something conciliatory instead, like extra strength Tylenol and you’ll laugh like it’s a great big joke but they’re actually serious and then you wonder why you came at all (double entendre). I became aware of this situation through a friend of a friend’s bad experience, more graphic in my mind than portrayed in writing for the main reason that I do not care to relive it long enough to get the words down on some kind of record, but nevertheless it always stuck with me like a bad cough, and the vicious nature of the retelling actually added an extra emphasis on protection, not wanting to go through a similar experience, the essence of which she has never really gotten over. The man in question, the one who had infected her, of course tried to shirk off blame, as men are known to do, on account of their limited role in the social exchange, having the fun without the responsibility, but she took care of it in the best and most fashionable and enviable way possible, letting him know she wasn’t one to suffer in silence, far from it, giving him a ration of shit so to speak (the same phrase my dad said that time in reference to a bee whose friend he had just killed, buzzing around him and giving him that ‘ration of shit’ over the death, unwarranted in the bee’s eyes of course and my dad, who has had his fair share of bee encounters, taking part in three different sessions of bee wars in three years, one of those battles had him running for his life around the length of the property, running faster than any run he has ever ran except of course that time where the water main broke and he ran like a cheetah to turn off the water because money was at stake, found it a completely warranted murder). And the man, not my dad, had to finally bow down and accept his responsibility in the introduction of the parasite to her womb and he paid for her removal procedure accordingly. Now in the back of my mind, I’m hoping my situation is not in kind, because all that drama sounds messy and terribly unworthy of the sexual experience in question, remembered through a haze but remembered nonetheless, as not even close to the best I have ever had. Sorry my man.
THE FRIENDS I KEEP IN 2014 DON’T GET HIGH, so there’s really no use recording our conversations in that self-important, self-indulgent, narcissistic way that Jack and Cody did back in the day, 1951, and even though I think I used to have some pretty solid conversations featuring meaningful revelations with some of my friends when we used to pass the bowl around from hand to hand, I’m not sure that anyone besides me and those similarly situated would give a fuck about what we had to say and how cool our observations and rationalizations were at the time or are now because there are many people all over the globe and potentially the universe too that have great conversations all the time and talk about some real interesting shit like why are we here and how can we escape, and how can we possibly compete with all that other great logical shit being discussed here and there, it is not possible just by being all intellectual and really revolutionary because there are so many people and so many things in this infinite universe to really see as virtuous and smart, and some kind of percentage of them are thinking the same things that we are all sitting around a pipe, coming to the same conclusions and perhaps even better ones that we are, given perhaps more advanced evidence, and I really hate the idea of assuming grandeur just because when I’m high I feel like I’m some kind of genius. Ah me! There are so many talents in the world that I wish could be recognized, things that people strive for, practice for, grasp unconditionally, and they are good, great even, and no one sees these incredible talents except for a small circle of people around them that dig their ideas or their art, and think goddamn this is really great art, the best I have seen, insights unbelievable and words incredible, but never proliferating the masses, the madness that equals some kind of grandness, a place among history to discuss the words of this generation’s misery.
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