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Wednesday, July 25th, 2007
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1:01a
Woke up the other day half on the bed and half on the floor. Don't really remember falling asleep. Then again, one never does. Still only semi-conscious, naked, stumble into the bathroom and see myself looking at me through the mirror. Small pane of glass separates my two halves. I see myself, eyes crusted over. Tannin caked lips from the wine. Eyes go up. I'm thinking back.
The work shirt and tie are suffocating. I'm not used to this. I prefer jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. What the hell am I doing here? Half the time I'm sitting on my ass waiting for a call to come in so I could go and fix a machine that weighs more than half of what I do. The other days I'm walking through the streets building to building rain or shine or armageddon.
I have to be nice. I can't look them in the eye and say I don't want to be here. My mind has checked out over a year and a half ago and my body's held down by simple inertia. Eventually it'll snap over to wherever my mind went. They might put me away at that point if I snap out a little too far. Who knows? I'll wake up in the jungles of South America thinking myself Aztec. Looking for hearts to sacrifice.
And speaking of hearts. I've never been good with women. It's always just at that point when everything's supposed to go right and we can relax and enjoy life it skids, jackknifes, and goes up in flames higher than Hiroshima. Or Nagasaki. Then afterwards - nothing. Not even a little friendship. It's more like they go someplace to get an exorcism. As for me? I'm back to where I started and lower. And alone.
So what do I do? Work to save up for a car? For someplace to move out to? I should. Instead I end up buying movies. Take a look at today. I've got:
Sick: The Life And Death Of Bob Flanagan, Supermasochist.
Songs From The Second Floor.
Female Trouble.
and
Paris, Texas.
In the meantime my brother bought:
If....
and
Pulp.
At least I've gotten back to writing again... if it can be called that.
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