The taller the can...

It's not every day I sit in a booth at my job and talk to a coworker about if you had a plan for suicide. Today was one of those days. I like that she asked if there was a plan. Like my house was on fire and I had to get out. Or everything finally caught up to me and I had to explain to everything to everyone. A plan. Well, there are plans. There are scenarios, situations, dance step charts, and assembled pieces of puzzles. But it is no big deal. I also have a plan for the money I'll win in the lottery. And a map of places I want to take the pills I've collected. There are a lot of push-pins in that map. I'm not one to waste. Sometimes. I've been most comfortable drinking in bed. It feels easier then drinking in an empty living room with no tv on. I keep waking up thinking I'm in my old house, the last one, the last day. The day I slept in the living room on couch cushions. The day I burned a bunch of things and cried because all that was left in that fucking house was me and the pots someone else bought for us. I keep looking at my hands and seeing the blood of that guy I punched in the face repeatedly. I was protecting a friend I just made. I was getting out the things I was going to pay a man one hundred dollars a week to listen to. Fighting in the street is free. And doesn't ease your soul. I keep putting money in a box next to my bed that I'm going to give to the county because they caught me drinking and driving. I also keep whatever drugs I am stockpiling in this box. It's a poor-man's version of the drawer I remember as a kid. My bed frame is wide enough hold all the bottles and cans I've been having. So I put them there. The stack of boxes in the corner of the room is slowly collapsing. It makes noise in the middle of everything. I could probably leave it there for years. I just might. There is never enough of anything on a daily basis. I run out of all of it. My skin is dry. My hands don't shake. My tears only show up in bars and booths talking about places and procedures to making things right, atonement, or a cure for boredom. I drive at night, and at day, and bite the insides of my mouth to keep me awake, alive, and interested. I spit blood into a cup from a sandwich shop in the valley. I smoke menthol cigarettes that aren't mine and ash onto a freeway that isn't either. I don't shower for days. I'm an experiment in the unexamined life that is documented. I scream and punch and pout and throw tantrums. I borrow money and spend it on snacks. I sit in the cabs of trucks testing drugs for quality and price, suddenly more knowledgeable then I ever thought I'd be. I sneak. I steal. I lie. I beg. I decide my own fate on minutes of sleep and liters of booze. I listen. I bleed. I write a bunch of self serving statements that may or may not be true. I exercise.

M is for Miles...

I stood on the roof of a venue last night. My pupils were big, my eyes were wider. I looked up at a building where friends and friends of friends do drugs different then the ones I was on right then. If it wasn't the breeze on my skin, or the cigarette smoke filling my lungs, then the chills had to be from some combination of her eyes, voice and hands. Sweet words were whispered into my ears about manifest destiny or the secret spots in our hearts that you need more than one map to find. Our hands were locked in a death grip, sweaty from the beating of hearts full of possible love and drugs, fingers rubbing together to keep the sense of security alive. The brown of her eyes was being over taken by the black of her pupil, and they said everything I knew. Past, present, and future laid end to end counting the steps to a heart.

I rub my hands sometimes to remind me of how it felt to be so close.

13/26

C is for Chances...

There are never too many chances to give or too many chances to take. There are never unnecessary chances. I take chances. I give them too. You are welcome to them, as many as your heart could possibly desire. I'll need a basket full too, if you have them to spare. I've known people to give them to men, women, sports teams, organizations, political theories, pants, parts of this country, other countries, wives, husbands, children and grocery stores. One of these days soon I won't need any more chances. I will wake up to just before the sun rising and not fall back asleep. I won't need coffee or amphetamines or the hair of the dog. I will put on my favorite shirt, the one that is in all of the pictures, and it will be soft, soft like the skin of the woman I am leaving alone in my bed. It will smell like her, and every bird, every song, every thought and every crack skipped over for the sake of saving backs of women I will be forever in debt to will remind me of her. Flowers. Dinners. Rage. Tears. Museums. Sandwiches. Love Songs. Appliances. Wine. Poems. Paintings. Sweat. Baked Goods. All of it. Everything. That day all of those things, and things I failed to mention, and things I don't even know about today will take the place of all of the chances I've been burning through like matches behind the gym at some Midwest high school. Chances. Second Chances. Third Chances. No need. No need at all.

3/26

in 15 minutes....

I'll be with Whit drinking beer.

I am moving on August 1st to Canoga Park.

I start school on September 2nd.

I got a car that drives on freeways.

I'll be quiting my job soon, but shooosh, they don't know yet.

Then I'll serve again, maybe tend bar, and read more, and write more, and blog more.

August 29th 2009. Thats the wedding day.

See you there.