The last best thing that I’ve got going/Don’t read this.
January 26, 2013 § 1 Comment
“You ought to head for the exits. The sooner the better.” – Autoclave – The Mountain Goats.
From sober, it’s like looking through clouded glass. From sober, it’s a code, it’s old lost letters and solutions in a dusty book. That’s the way I’ve always seen it. Of course, I am talking about the actions we make once our sobriety has been comprised. Once we have that morning hue. That half bottle ease. That numb. It’s not crystal balls, it’s bathroom glass, when we look back. Fuck. Shit. Paycheck‘s. Lottery. I hope. I hope. I have all this hope, I had it at least, I wetting it down and threw it up on the wall, just to see what would stick. Little did. I started to fear that I’d become everything I’d ever hated. I started to fear. Then I realised, that to live life with passion and self-loathing, that to turn that around you must become what you hate. Do you see what I mean? No. It feels like no one ever does. Warhol. Sixx. Cobain. Something like that. I don’t know. Let me piggy back, let me sing and dance and screw and feel easy. Is that too much to ask? No. No it isn’t. I don’t think. But I’ve asked for some much already. Like a spoiled fucking child. Fuck. It’s one of those isn’t it? The words just fall from my fingers and I smile. I know. I know. I’m making no sense. I think you have to be on my level to make sense of it all. I mean, by that, that you should take the contents of your wallet, take it to a bar, part with it in exchange for hard liquor, then read this again. I plan it to make a little more sense. I keep the TV on silent while comedy faces stream out. Faces. Faces I recongise. I love. I love. I loved. Now I’m just on auto. I’m just on a phase. I’m on a sleepy easy. I work but who gives a fuck? I mean, really? Who gives a fuck? Not me. I take another sip as the words all fall out of my head, like the cuts I suffered where as real as they feel. Like you could see them. Red words oozing out from below my hair line, blood on a keyboard. This is blood on keyboard. I miss her every night but I’m blocking it out. Shit. I distance myself. I distance the reader from me. I drink some more. Line the shots up. Did you ever notice in films, the way they line the shots up? Hit me again, they say, another, they say, like there is trust, like it’s a given that they will pay. Well I say line them up, watch me run. Catch me if you can bar man. Run rummy run. Fuck. Messy. Messy. Messy. Hungover social networking statuses. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. “It’s pretty but you hate yourself, I can see it clear as day. I’m OK, ok? Love. Hate. The rolling thunder. Shit. What? Who even cares anymore? I mean, at this point, the only person reading is someone watching the car crash. Watch the thunder roll. Watching the glass break. Let the good times roll, no we’re not in control and we’re crazy to think that we are. Laid. Torn up again. I’ve heard enough? Haven’t you? I mean really, to what extent does crazy stop being crazy? stop being mad? stop being a novelty, stop being an act? Fuck who’s even reading now anyway? She’s just reading the wheels fall off. She’s just reading another post like this. Maybe I should sober up, would that be fun to read. Sarcasm.