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.

Flexing

There is a fancy, nice, dress sort of style sweater from last Christmas. There is a beanie of orange and blue from a house a few houses ago, a couple of girlfriends before. There is a shirt left over from an art project, and pajama pants from a mother that wasn't yours but wanted to be. Other then that it is all the same. Another holiday. Another work week. Another Sunday distraction of beer and football. Or maybe champagne. Or pills. Or biscuits and gravy. Everything sounds good lately. Everything then some. I'd count the days to and after on my crooked fingers, using each separation to mark the rise and fall of the sun. But that is easy. The countdown is this: is it Christmas? No? Then put your head down and wait. Or plow though it. Or peek between your folded arms while your thumb is up and sneak a peak at the shoes of the girl who touches your thumb. But don't pick her. Pick the girl you think should have a life ending crush on you. You know what to do. Drink some orange juice. Take some vitamins. Spray some shit into your throat. Medicine. Then more medicine. You know how to heal yourself. Too bad you don't stop whatever happens between your sheets, in your bathroom, on the road or inside your own head that keeps getting you sick. Or at least let you stay healthy for the last eleven months. You'll be fine in the morning.

I know.

Because you are always fine.

Sidenote: go back to March. Stand up for yourself, your desires and your lust. Are you still sleeping in an empty bed? Does it hurt more? Does it hurt less?

Tomorrow, there is this idea that came into my head, about my hands, my tiny hands, that I want to expand on. You always think you can choke the life out of someone. But what if you can't even grip tight enough to make someone cum?

day two

Day one had breakfast in bed and ice cream at night. I forgot to mention. Day two, the way mornings should be. This certain way she smiles when wakes up and realizes where she is is saved in my head. And every morning I make sure it is still there, and today it was. There was school for her and work for me. A stolen lunch break cuddle session. As I swept and replayed the previous days events I came to a conclusion. You decide to love some one. And you decide to love them as long as you want to. It's not chemical, it's a decision. You can continue to fall into patterns or not. You can hold things against people or not. You can let your parents relationship, your grandparents relationship, or your past relationships affect what you do today, but you shouldn't. And now I won't. Day two was good, but sharing it with someone was better.

day one

Waking up at 5:30 in the morning not knowing if that is the last time you wake up next to someone you love is not something I recommend. 2 or so hours spent putting little kisses on a shoulder or cheek, trying to wake her up isn't as bad as it could be, just to long. That first conversation of day should never contain "are you staying?" or "do you still want to get married?" or "do you want to try to help me be better?. Make up sex should not have to occur, but at least it does. Hours at work should not be worn away by stomach pain and unreturned text messages. Knowing someone isn't leaving doesn't mean anything when you can't see them. But coming home to them on the couch with a smile on their face and a ring on their finger means more than you can imagine, unless you've survived a shipwreck, or been where I have, throwing away something that no matter how much you tell yourself you deserve it, you can't make yourself believe that you've earned it. That nights sleep is much less restless. To more nights sleeps like that.

memorial day redux

Every single hateful, angry, spiteful, baiting and horrible thing said by myself ran on repeat through my head. The list not as long as it could be, but still entirely too long. I sat in front of the door and watched as things got folded up, or stuffed into bags or thrown across the room. I said things that in the past may have calmed the situation down, or at least now make me feel better, but never worked. Tears and more tears. Finally it was agreed for one more night we would try. I didn't sleep alone. But I figured out that you don't have to be the person you have always been. And sometimes in the morning everything is ok.

the recurring joke that is probably much more serious

I like to say that I am really seven years old. Actually, I think it is funny. That even though I can hold down a job or have a girlfriend or a checking account or drive a car or drink beer or stay out late, I am actually only developmentally seven years old. Pee and Poop jokes are still the best. I like running around whatever house/apartment I am occupying naked. Completely inconsequential things. Except for this feeling I experienced this morning.

I'm really selfish. I'm going to take my ball home and then no one can play selfish. I get upset when people move on with their lives without me. I think I should be massively more important to people than I am or deserve to be. Even the people who I am very important to, its not enough. I can completely abandon friends that I have had for 1,5,10,15, even 20 years, and they should still hang on my every word, thought and emotion.

I am an asshole. A son-of-a-bitch. A piece of shit even. I have very little consideration for other peoples feelings. I showed that by the way I handled moving out to Chicago, and the way I have handled myself since I got here.

I am thankful everyday that my friends and family put up with me. I don't know if I could, or even want to.

I really don't know why I expect people to wait around for me. I always thought, hell, I was sort of raised, that if you wait around you'll get left behind. More and more these days I wouldn't mind getting left behind.

the new late night phone call

3:15 in the morning. My eyes are about to go on strike. We are in last minute negotiations, they want rest, I want more work. I am prepared to hire scabs. I know some people, their families are hungry, they wouldn't mind reading blogs and myspace pages all night long. In fact, they would love to. I hope if my eyeballs do strike the other unions don't try to show any solidarity. The brain seems into not letting things affect him, at least lately. And the liver, he's on a leave of absence. Sort of like Joe from Joe versus the Volcano, just no sunkist or whatever. (I just realized I don't know why Joe stops working in that movie, oh well.) It's those pesky fingers that I worry about. They are always trying to rally all the other unions together. They are some real motherfuckers, could be why I like them so much.

BREAKING NEWS: EYES AGREE TO KEEP WORKING. WORKDAYS 23 MINUTES SHORTER!


Now that all of that is settled, the post. My life is nothing but late night phone calls. At least now it is. It's either calls from friends to warn of cops, or calls from cops to warn about friends, or guys who don't like my taste in things, like blog titles or figures or sports teams, or girls wondering where I am, or people looking for money, or my dad looking for money. My life is all of those things. And for good measure there are also the late night calls I wish would be made. But my phone doesn't ring with those numbers or names. And I don't use those numbers either, even though it is all I think about. (side note: good to see being sober doesn't hinder my poor decision making abilities or curb my tendencies of crazy.) I don't wake up thirsty for water, just someone's voice. Someone who wants me to be with them, wants me dead, or wants me to die with them. It's not a horrible thing to wish for. Besides, I have free nights and weekends.