I wished beer would get me drunk, I should be drunk

I'm feeling blue again.  Like maybe I should get drunk even though I have been telling friends that I am bored of drinking, and that's why I did not go out drinking with them even though I had three days off from work.

Of course all those days off from work are all unpaid so I really don't have much money to go drinking with anyway.  So maybe that is another reason why I have not partied much.

But really I think it has to do with how drinking does not excite me much anymore.  The drinking mostly kills my liver and makes me feel like shit the next day.  It does all that without giving me much of a buzz anymore.

I guess I have to drink on an empty stomach and do shots and crazy shit like that.  I can't just sit back and drink a few beers and feel nice.

That's why my drug friend says she wants to go crazy and do drugs with me, because I don't get the benefits from beer anymore.

We will be coked out and use E and then maybe I will feel better about life.  If I feel happier I can start taking my life responsibly. I know that sounds ironic, but without joy there is no reason to care about where you are going, or what you are doing in life.

If you are wondering where the post about last weeks adventure is, well... I still haven't written it.

I am not sure when I will.  I also have not gotten the essay from my friend about how much of a miscreant I am.

If he can be lazy so can I.

I am feeling to sorry for myself.  I want to quit blogging again.  Every few weeks (as every blogger will tell you) I think about deleting this project.  I can't grow the readership here even after taking the time to edit and spell correctly for you.

I have a feeling that I am less mainstream that I thought and that I don't connect to the real world in any meaningful sense.

I have also noted how stilted my writing style has become  is as I try and master on the writing style of guys like Bukowski and other minimalists.

I write sloppy.  I write too choppy.  And I can't fix my shitty writing skills.  I have been trying to do so for 7 years on this blog, and nothing much has changed.  I still have the same 10 readers.  I still have the same 100 hits a day (though now most of them arise from google picture searches for Miley Cyrus in pantyhose.)

Since my writing sucks (plus I have a wicked case of  writers block) I might concentrate on getting my podcast up to date.

I bought a new microphone for the podcast.  But the podcast provider I use is being stingy and not allowing me to add any episodes unless I keep them under 45 seconds.  

In other news:

I bought a 30 gig i-pod after my mother read a facebook post exchange between me and my brother where I lusted after his itouch.

"I'm almost a 40 year old man."  I thought to myself. "I should buy myself an i-pod, and not rely on my mommie." 

(I felt especially bad after getting an e-mail from Mom that asked me, "if I could wait till she gets her tax refund check" after I explained to her that a decked out i-touch could cost 3 or 4 hundred dollars.)

I bought the i-pod from a pawn shop because I can't afford to buy a new i-pod (touch or classic).

I feel bad about buying things from pawn shops, because I assume that people who pawn things are in a desperate situation.

The i-pod worked okay for the first few days.  It had a ton of scratches on the screen, but I was okay with that.  Because of the scratches I got the i-pod for 50 dollars (I talked em down from 60).

I noticed right away that the battery life was not great.  If lucky I might get 6 hours of audio time (the specs predict 14 to 20, but the i-pod is at least 5 years old.)

I was okay with the scratches and the shitty screen, and even with having to buy a usb connector (10 extra dollars!)

But the last straw was the audio jack has crashed leaving me with only one ear playing and when I tried watching David Harvey's class on Capital and the i-pod crashed after 10 minutes.

Can you imagine ME fixing this?  Me either!

I love David Harvey.  The longer I live the closer I come to an acceptance that my life will never be the guy listening to such a great lecture series in person, much less the one giving it.  But at least I can vicariously engage the text, class, and life I wanted because of him.

Though not with the shitty i-pod I bought at a pawn shop.

p.s.  the i-pod came with a 5 day warranty that is up tomorrow so at least I get my money back.  And I can watch his videos on my env3.  I just can't bookmark them.

p.s.s. Moral of the story?  I hope my mommy still plans on buying me an i-pod.

A new podcast is up

If you forgot that I had a podcast don't feel bad.  According to my statistics the podcast has yet to be downloaded.  I know that can't be true as I download a copy of each new podcast to hear myself.

I want you to hear what a crappy microphone I am using on my podcast.  All because none of you donate to my paypal.  So the 9 dollar mike I bought at Walmart is crapping out on me.  Somehow it finds the exact moment I am going for a punch line to wig out on me.

Also, the free podcast service I use is limited to its crappy recorder, and does not allow me to use extensions, or add lines, so I can no longer add music or extras to the podcast.

What I am saying is that listening to the podcast is now an extra crappy experience, but I know the guy (or gal) from South Carolina who visits 120 times a month to this site probably can't get enough of me, so that's why I am talking up this crappy podcast.

Enjoy!

p.s.

I had a crazy night last night hanging with my boy JAVI. (Formerly known as MR. X.)  I got kissed on the ear twice by a girl.  I almost made out with her as well. 

A friend responded to my text about last night by saying

Nice. Too much to respond to there.  Could only write one word.  I could write a 2000 word essay on that last text.

I hope he does.  I told him my readers are expecting it.  If we get  5o comments he promises to write it.

*update* 

He says he is going to write it.  Sneak peak in to his opening line was..."all my friends are miscreants.."  Sounds funny!

My post is forthcoming.

p.s.s.

I am twittering on a regular basis again!  I will be talking a lot about cell phones.  It is my new obsession.  Do you care if the the new Moto Devour has the 1.6 Android OS?  If you do then make sure to follow me! 

Also, I will update podcast and blog posts on my Twitter. 

Do you want to overhear a conversation about rape and giant milk nipples?

I sit at my lunch table pretending that I am not listening to the conversation going on next to me.

The couple are both attractive in their mid 20's.  The girl has long, straight black hair.  She is dressed in all black.  Her open toed stilettos expose bright painted nails.  Her low cut shirt shows off her huge breasts.

Her giant breasts slosh around for several seconds after any sudden movement from her like two of those slinky toys we had in childhood got trapped in them.

The breasts must be full of milk.  I imagine myself as her dairy farmer milking them every morning.  I would be an early riser.  I wake from my cold bed, run to the barn,  and grab my stool, and get to work squishing drops of milk from her nipples into my pan.

I think it would be a wonderful life.

"I can think of times when a man has to commit murder.  In cases of self-defense.  At times of war.  If one were an executioner."  The girl in her mid-twenties says.

"But I can't see why a man would ever have to rape.  Which is why I think, between the two, rape is by far the worse of the crimes."  She finishes.

"But what about times of rapist self-defense?"  I interrupt.

The pair look over at me quizzically.  They must wonder how I managed to overhear their conversation.  I point out that my headphones, while in my ears, where not plugged into my phone.

"Excuse me."  The girl blinks at me.  Her voice is quivering.  She must get nervous during debates.

"Like you know, if the chick is like a really hot chick, and she is walking alone down a dark alley- asking for it."

I think I am starting to get the hang of this debate thing.

"What's a guy to do?" I ask.

My attention is diverted from the couple by a young girl who walks into the pizza parlor.  She is wearing boots. In a cliche of teen girl hottness she is also wearing tight jeans that show off her nice bum.

Her nails trace a path on my table as she walks past me.    Each nail is painted a different color.  Neon green, neon orange, black, purple.  Her wrists have several of those multi colored friendship bracelets on.

She sits to the table directly across from me.  She runs her hands through all of the long hair and crosses her legs.  She looks at me like she is daring me to do something.

"That girl can't be more than 14."  The woman with the Bank Of America name tag says to me.

I have to manually close my jaw.

"You think?"  I ask, my voice much too high with excitement.

The woman's voice next to me is trying to get my attention back, but my eyes can't seem to move away from the young girl who is now fingering the buttons on her shirt.

"Can you believe that?"  The man next to me is suddenly awake and laughing.  His elbow reaches out to knock against mine.  His lunch companion utters a few vocal grunts of disgust.

"I know."  I admire.  "This place is awesome!"

The spirit is fading

Write what you know.

If I were to do that then all my notebooks would be filled with descriptions of my swollen anal cavity.

The blood slowly dripping.  My ass cheeks rubbed raw by the infected fecal matter.  The taste of fresh boogers collected from my thumb nail.

If I wasn't writing lurid descriptions of my body then I would be filling my notebooks full of the unsolicited e-mails I send to women on dating sites.

The women are single mothers who like to party.  Most of them have not had the good sense to abandon their children to the state and only keep them from some distorted sense of morality.

By clutching on to their children the mothers only add insult to injury. Only the mothers eventual arrest for solicitation offers these children any hope for breaking free from such suffocating maternal instincts.

Dear Ms. So and So:

I like everything about you.  I like the way you look.  I like your sense of style.  I like the way you like to party.

We should get together and finish off a bottle of tequila.  Not that I really like tequila.  I find that I am more of a beer person.  But perhaps if you made margaritas we could easily finish the bottle between us.  Either that or you could swill straight from the bottle and I could pound away at 5.7% beer so that you would not misjudge my manhood.

p.s.

I do not have a crib, so if you child needs something to sleep in maybe he could stay at a neighbors.

I look forward to hearing from you.

So far I must confess that my e-mail has not garnered me a date from any of my matches.  Even the ones who blog about suicide.

Perhaps that is because I refuse to send the e-mail to any undesirables.  I detest ugly women.  Which I know to be ironic, but what can I say.  I am a self-hating ugly.

I would rather spend my life alone that surrounded by the squishy, hairy mammoth arms of a desperate ugly woman whose fingers yearn to caress my man boobs.

I do not need to be one of those couples with lowered expectations that have unconsciously inverted their standards from the universal to the particular.

Not that I don't understand  a life about lowered expectations.  My whole life is testament to lowered expectations.  Lowered expectations are why I do not leave my living room, or change my undershorts.

I can only hope the suicidal party mom wants to lower her expectations and date a man with half of her aesthetic appeal.

A match can be made between a good looking melancholic, overly stressed by the dependence of her hatchlings, with a sensitive man of words, but limited physical attributes.

I could heat up the bottle in the microwave for her.  And she could heat up things in the bedroom for me.

But imagine yourself with a person with whom you have no chemistry.  The square backed fat girl.  An ethnic girl of most any type.  Save the petite beauties offered up from the Orient.  I react poorly whenever I see a match of two robustly ugly people in love.  I am simply unable to keep eye contact  when I see the two unattractives get all gooey with each other.

They should at least have the dignity to realize that what they are doing is against all of nature.  That no one can find them pleasing to touch or to be around.

Let us uglies find something within us to trade to the attractive in order that we might spread our seed and be matched.  Or if not, let us be content to admit plainly that what we have is not so great.  And thereby avoid the unpleasant display of affection in public.

Post Valentine's Day Blues I consider buying the underwear of my imaginary girlfriend and post a comment on her blog and then I write this

Holidays are a time for reflection.  Even made up holidays like Valentine's Day.

In that spirit I reflect on Womankind.

I shouldn't.

I have no real powers to reflect on women.  I don't understand women, and the only thing I assume they are good for is masturbation fantasies.

The small tragedy of my life is that I am shallow bastard.  The ironic part is that I am ugly, and therefor I will not have any beauty in my life.

Unless you count beauty in some other way than good looking women.  Which is just you trying to be okay with being ugly.  I have never been okay with that.  I don't accept things (like facts) the way you do, and I won't follow the wise man's advice and "just get over it."

Furthermore, I don't like the idea of rationalizing my shortcomings as strengths.  That is some kind of annoying American businessman trait that has been generalized to the populace. 

I would surround myself with good looking women, but I do not know any good looking women other than the women who work at the bank inside my grocery store.  Or the women I pass by in the street, as I cross in the pedestrian pathway, and they are adjusting their majestic pony tails.  They wipe lipstick off their teeth and peer over me from behind polished mirrors and powder brushes.

I do not know these women in any other way than the brief encounters where I am luridly watching them and they are preparing their speed dials for a quick 911 call.

I have encountered the kind of woman who visits grave yards, and picks apples, or dress with a quirky attitude.  But they do not notice me.

The emo girl with tattoos who smells like mint,  and does not shave her underarms wants me to have tats and an appreciation for some obscure indie label band like Romulan Pychobilly.

Just in case you think I am only shallow about the outsides.  

I also do not know any women with a sense of humor.  I do not know any sensitive women with a brassy tough exterior, the kind you find on family sitcoms in the 1980's.

I once knew a woman who looked like a chicken dumpling.

In my life there has been only a a very short list of women.  This is a sad truth that I cannot explain as easily as you might think.

I see men and women all the time that bounce around between companions, and I wonder what is wrong with me that I do not do the same.

I take notice of the types of people who seem clinically alone and I am not like any of them.  I am far more social. I am just as capable  of getting along in society and faking it like the rest of you.

There is the guy at the bus stop that smokes tiny paper cigarettes.  I think there must be dope in them.  He is a ginger boy.   Soft and earnest his eyes always look watery and his face wears an expression like he is about to cry.  He must be slow in the head.   He cannot operate the bill acceptor on the bus.  The bus driver has to insert his bus fare for him.

He sits next to me on the bus.  He tells me of the Martin Luther King he has read in a book.  The ginger boy knows there is something great happening in the universe. It's all meant to be.

He says, "The arc of justice is great, but it bends towards justice."

That is my favorite quote by MLK.

I would talk to him, but he gives a creepy schizophrenic vibe out.  I keep one earpiece in my ear and explain to him that he should not bother me because I am listening to an audio book.

I explain the word Absurdistan to him (after pronouncing it to him 20 times.)

He thinks Absurdistan has something to do with techno or rap.  Techno and rap have something to do with the coming justice in the world.  But he is quiet and conspiratorial, and only half interested in telling me what he knows.

He wants to hear my thoughts.

My first thought is that I like my own company too much.

I am the only person I know that eats alone at diners.  I eat out alone several times a week.  I eat out alone more often that I eat with company.

I would hang out with you, but you are probably boring.  I would have to make all the jokes.  I would have to bring up all the interesting things I found on my internet searches this week.

I would hang out with you, but then I would have to pedantically explain to you all my references to (pick one: pop culture, current events, obscure philosophy whatever you are not good at.)

I refuse to engage you on any level where you may be my equal.  Unless I know that I can fool you into thinking that  I am smarter than you.

Fooling you is usually easy.  I just use the mind control techniques I learned in Psychology 101 classes. 

Sometimes while I am eating by myself I have to turn off the audio book I am listening to in order to talk to myself about what I am reading hearing.

How am I supposed to be able to listen to an audio book if you are hanging out with me?  Do you think we could get one of those earphone splitters so we can listen to the same i-pod?  Do you mind if I stop the book and jot down notes?  Do you mind if we eat at Whataburger at least 3 times a week?

I suppose you will.

Greasy, stinky, drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons

I know that's how you guys like to imagine me.  Drinking and stinky.  Sweating profusely.  Drunk as hell the day after Valentine's Day, crying in my PBR's at some local dive bar telling the bartender how I can't get laid and have not had a girl friend in 5 years.

Well it ain't nothing like that.

Maybe I spent 45 minutes in the shower after I got home from work.  I had to.  I spent the whole day giving out balloons and candy to the happy couples.  So I spent 45 minutes in the shower letting the water pummel me.

I did not do that either.  I just sat on my bed and watched Big Love.  Episodes 5 and 6 from the new season.  I watched TV on the computer because the remote control to my TV is not working.  I don't know why my remote is not working.  I just put 2 fresh batteries in the remote.

I felt all cracked out yesterday at work.  I guess the whole idea of me doing enough drugs to ruin  my life is over.  I don't how you drug addicts do it.

I feel like getting addicted is a choice.  I know that is not true for most of you, but for me it is.  I can feel the addictive powers of drugs, but I can stop myself.

I guess I feel the side effects and it scares me off.  My sense of self is too important for me to watch it drift off in the mist.  I guess I don't hate myself enough.

I was toe tapping all day at work.  I felt my heart jump around.  I had  this tense teeth grinding, bleary eyes take on the world.  I think the coke we bought had to have been cut with Meth.

Actually I am sure all coke is cut with meth.

I am so not addicted to coke that a line sits on a paper plate hidden in my dresser drawer.  I did not finish it off last night.  I did not use it as a perk for getting up early and going to work this morning. I did not snort it up as soon as I got home.  I did not think about doing the line while I stood around at work today.

I am not even thinking about doing it right now.  And it's not like I got the coke shits or anything.  I did not even get much nasal drip this time.

I am sure I am getting my friend Special K addicted though.  She is texting me constantly. When we gonna get some?  She asks.  When we gonna do it?

I don't know man.  I need something purer I think.  I need something more euphoric, because this cut Meth shit is just making me anxious or making me energetic like I am on diet pills.  Just fuzzy stomach stuff and no real out of body experience.

I forgot I was gonna write while high on Detroit. (Detroit is code for coke dipshits.)

Came up with a wild riff last night that got all the party goers saying we need to record me on drugs and work it out so that I can go and do stand up.

I just laughed that shit off as those mother fuckers is drunk, and hopped up coke heads who think anyone who can still think straight (maintain) for 3 seconds has some grasp of the English language that needs to heard.

I will stick to Pepsi Throwback and caffeine and staying up till 5 am without Detroit (at least for a week or so) and see how that goes and when it goes like crap (like it always does) then I will change my mind and move on to E or something more hard core like smoking crack or heroin.

In da ghetto we live the Thug life

This is a pic of my breakroom.

Live blogging

I am sitting at the Burger King next to my grocery store listening to my text messages via a quirky computerized voice program that keeps me from having to read her texts, "no problemo" says the computerized lady voice in a strangely authentic Mexican accent.


The BK is full of single dads on weekend parent duty. I notice how the dads coo over their teenage daughters. 

I ordered a large drink and not a large fries, but I got charged for both. I had to ask for extra napkins, because this BK has a 2 napkin limit. The manager gave me a knowing wink when I asked for mustard and third set of 2 ply napkins.

I just got a text that my "connection" wants a hundred dollars for the stolen i-pod he wants to sell me. I say for that price I will buy online and not deal with the guilt of buying stolen goods.

Almost Heart

First time this week I have woken up without a hangover.  I got up a full 36 minutes before I have to jump in the shower and run off to work.

Work is lame, but I only have six hours shifts this week.  Not so bad.  I do have to work Sunday which is Valentine's Day.  That sucks as I was supposed to go to the Communist Picnic Sunday.

I requested the day off, but alas it got changed because all of you dick heads need to run to the grocery store on the day of the holiday and pick up a box of chocolates, a dozen droopy red roses, and a $5.99  Hallmark card that tells her all kinds of squishy things you never feel about her.

This is done so that you don't have to be nice to her the rest of the year.  At least that was told to me by my friend the Girl Robot.

Girl Robot is mechanical and cannot feel human emotions, so she gets pissed off when humans try and feel things even though we all know you  guys are mostly incapable of feeling things.

"Tell me one couple who has a good relationship."  She offers me as proof that humans are incapable of feelings and good behavior.

I list a few couples we know.  None of them are happy.  I then suggest she adopt a life of monkism like myself.

"Nobody wants to fuck you."  She replies curtly.  "That's different."

Her cruelty will not go unanswered in the next life. 

Her unpleasant words still ringing in my ears, I saunter off to the customer service desk where a girl offers me a tip for printing her money order for her.  Then she offers to double the tip if I show my tits.

I undo the top button on my shirt in a faux strip tease.    She suggests that my strip tease would earn me 4 dollars. 

She giggles and tells me it was nice to meet me even though we never exchanged introductions.  Though she knew my name because I wear a name tag.

Do you remember my Valentine's Day Post from a few years ago?  If you don't here is the link.  It was somewhat funny.  Go remember it.

Regret is never enough

It ended with regret.

Like most things I do in my life. But at the time I had no idea that it would end that way. I never do. I just plunge straight into things without thinking.

"At a certain point you get used to things not working out for you." I lament to the drunk next to me.

Shane is shit-faced and leaning to close to me. The black derby styled hat perched on his head looks ridiculous.

"This is a fucking dive bar." I tell myself. "No way in hell a guy should be in here wearing a hat like that."

I am going to tell Shane my darkest thoughts. I am going to tell him the things that make me ashamed to be alive. I want to choke him on my perversity, my demons.

"We all think things like that, man." He breathes at me.

The air around me is now toxic with stale onions and vomit.

"I want to tie a woman up with masking tape, and douse her in ketchup, and wrap her in plastic lawn bags and give her so much alcohol and pain killers that she doesn't wake up for a day or two after we start to fuck."

I pause just long enough to gulp down what's left of my beer.

"I want to fuck her only through the drunk daze of chemicals. I want her to wake up feeling violated. I want her to beg for me to do it again." I let my voice soften and drift away.

"Man that ain't nothing." Shane says.

Shane takes off his hat and wipes his brow with both of his pale skinny hands.

"I mean…" He stutters.

"I've done stuff I regret." He adds.

I look over at Rhonda the bartender. Her face is grinning at me. I think she loved every minute of my little soliloquy.

"You're one CRAZY ass mutherfucker." She tells me. "You know that?"

"I think I do."

Dear Diary. Nothing Happened.

Dear Diary,

I've been drinking a lot lately.

I've been drinking almost every day this week.

I drank yesterday. I drank two days ago, and I am even drinking right now.

Now Diary, I've only had two beers so far tonight. So I am still of sober mind. So don't go thinking this blog post is one of those rambling drunken posts with no connection to reality.

Even though I am sure I am going to ramble a bit.

I just cracked open my third beer. The third beer was a can. Bud. The second was a bottle of Bud, and so was my first beer.

I bought a six pack of Ultra just before closing time. I need to get fewer calories in me as I am eating chocolate gold fish from Pepperidge Farm.

(They are delish!)

I know that last comment was a little gay, but fuck it.

A word to the wise man, Dear Diary. Drinking Budweiser and chewing on graham crackers goes well with Eric Clapton. I am thinking specifically of the live album he cut on MTV.

My beer is warm.

I think I need to keep drinking it though.

At least the drinking will keep me from thinking about Detroit.

Though sometimes drinking leads to Detroit. And drinking and Detroit lead me to public masturbation.

People are against public masturbation.

I ate some Whataburger tonight.

Diary, did you know there were lots of hot chicks at Whataburger around midnight?

Well, there are.

I stared at one of them while watching the latest episode of 24 on my mobile phone.

The girl I stared at was very pretty.

And she was sitting with her boyfriend and it seemed to me that the guy was not all that special.

Actually, I noticed almost all the girls who had boyfriends had boyfriends that were way below what you might expect those girls to be able to get.

It's strange when you notice people.

The more you pay attention the more things you see.

Most of those things make you feel weird.

I was looking at the boyfriends for a while. The thing I noticed most about them was how unselfconscious they were.

Even though (it seemed to me) they had plenty of reasons to worry.

I've read that ignorance is bliss.

I think at one point the girl I was really digging noticed how brazen my staring had become.

(I was just thinking how nice it would be to have such a pretty girlfriend. Plus when you have a gf you can stare at her all you want. You can stare in her eyes and trace her freckles and chicks just think you are being sweet and all and not creepy or weird like.)

So the girl notices me and points me out to her boyfriend (who doesn't really even look over) and I just turn my eyes away and start paying more attention to Jack Bauer.

Jack's friend is being raped by some Russian asshole who acts tuff by throwing a glass against a wall.

I think about throwing my plastic cup half full of Sprite. I think about bouncing my Sprite off the trash can. I wonder what the group of college kids would do if they saw me do that.

There's a lot of them.

[College Kids]

I think they would call the cops on me.

{college kids call the cops}

The girl I am staring at has nice hair.

Her hair is up in some killer swept up hair do. She is broad smiling and sharing parts of her burger with her boyfriend.

It seems to me she is really playing up the whole, "I've got a bf so you can stop staring at me" thing.

There is another girl at Whataburger that would knock your socks off. That is if you saw her, Diary.

She is tall.

Skinny in her tight jeans.

She had amazing curly hair that was frosted blond.

Her hair was REALLY frosted at the top. I think the stylist may have fucked that part up. Somehow she worked it and it made her look older and more sophisticated as she tossed french fries at dinner companions.

Her dinner companions were two Asian girls and three "surfer" teen boys.

The teen boys were studded with acne and large flat rimed hats. The boys cocked the hats that sat on their heads sideways.

Most of the fries tossed by the pretty blond missed their target and ended up on the ground.

The Asian girls weren't that pretty.

But I would have fucked them.

Absurdistan

Can I tell you guys about the book I am reading?

Of course I can.  It's my blog and I get to do what the hell I want on it.

Go fucking read ABSURDISTAN.

This shit is the bomb!

Think Confederacy of Dunces, but from the style of late decaying 1980's  Soviet Union.

I found the book looking through the electronic resources of the Tempe Library.  I listen for free on my Env3 at the bus stops.  It almost makes me glad it takes me 90 minutes to get to work now!

Detroit is aka the precious which is aka for the shit

Dr. Detroit is the name of my coke dealer. Naturally, I make all kinds of references about "Detroit" when I talk to my drug friends. I say things like, "I am going to Detroit" when I am going over to my drug dealer's house.

My drug dealer does not have a house. My drug dealer lives at one of those Resident Inn's or Traveler Motels. For a motel the place is pretty nice. His room comes with a small kitchen and a 20 inch TV.

My drug dealer is straight up ghetto. He has jerry curls and walks with a limp because he's been shot so many times.

You may wonder why I am doing drugs. I will tell you. I just spent 2 hours editing the whataburger on the road post.  (Was it worth it?)

I was reading over that blog post in hopes that I could get a book out of it. Either that or I hoped I could see some talent or good writing on it. I was looking for anything that would give me hope. Hope enough for me to hang on to this crappy life and keep trying.

What I found caused me to take a road trip to Detroit.

So what we have here at this blog is what we have always had.

A Chronicle of decline. (If I were ever up.)

So that's why I am doing crack, Meth, mushrooms, and whatever I can get my hands on.

I text my friend (she hooks on the side) and I ask her if she wants to rent a motel room with me and buy some coke. I tell her I want to buy the stuff on my day off and hang out with her and get drunk & fucked up in the middle of the day.

"It has to be in the middle of the day." I tell her. "I don't want to get high at night, because then it just seems like we are partying."

I want this drug taking to be seen as obscene not glamorous by her.

I tell her, "I want to snort as much cocaine as we can buy."

I don't tell her that I am really thinking about buying her meth. Meth is way cheaper. Meth is also way more dangerous. Meth is gonna fuck us up real soon, because I can't stop thinking about Meth.

I have Meth on the brain.

I text:

I want to rent a motel room so we can keep all the Detroit to ourselves.

She agrees with me. We should keep all the shit for ourselves. Anyway my roommate might be a cannibal. It's better if I stay the fuck away from him as much as possible.

My new life of drugs promises me a quick burn out. At least I hope it does. When I am gone you will forget that I am loser.

I just want to feel good.

Her text says.

Don't we all baby-doll. Don't we all?