June Thirty: My Therapist Says to Write Things I’m Thankful For

Continuing in the theme of withdrawal-induced negativity from the last two days, let me tell you how much I hate the TVs and music at the gym. I can always find a way to complain about AV. First: what the fuck do we need to watch TV while doing cardio for? And why can’t I look away? These things are hypnotic. I’m focusing on becoming more atomized and isolated and weird by putting podcast voices directly into my brain while meditating on the LED track showing the miles I’m simulating riding for some reason. There aren’t any TVs near the weights because men need to focus because they actually work out there. This is a chick thing. It’s just the fat chicks on the bikes who are trying to pretend like they’re out-training their shitty diets by keeping their heart rate at ninety BPM for an episode of Real Housewives or two. They’d be better off not exercising so at least they wouldn’t be able to pretend like they’re in the process of becoming less of an eye sore. Keep climbing those Random Hills, Missyphus. The music is fucking terrible. These auto-tuned, guttural ejaculations of sound sitting so high in the mix that they literally fuck your eardrum. UGH UGH UGH UGH in the chromatic scale. That bass noise that sounds like a digital fart. Music so bad, it’s practically avant-garde. Who writes this shit? I read on the internet it was old Jews who are trying to keep us demoralized. I used to think that was crazy but no longer – there’s no other logical explanation.

The endorphins from working out have quelled my anger. I’m glad art is dead and architecture sucks. Plato said ugly buildings and public art would turn people into assholes but look how normal I turned out. He didn’t know we would have electronic facsimiles of African bards screaming their exploits into our ears everywhere we went as well. I’m thankful for Chopin, the AR-15, thin women, Safeway/Vons supermarket, chess, the ocean, girls who don’t shave their cunts, and Marcus Aurelius.

Fuck Sir Walter Raleigh. Or native Americans. Whatever.


June Twenty-Nine: Two Years Gone

Jesus Christ – I drink a lot. It snuck up on me. Drink some beers after work, run out, drink some Seagrams 7 and bitters, go into work hung over. Repeat. I have to quit smoking because it’s given me some weird sleep apnea shit and I feel sick all the time. I do pretty well at not smoking until I get drunk – so I have to stop both. It’s the most unoriginal problem ever and thus, the most unoriginal blog post. I hate my job and so I am literally killing myself when I get home. My neighbor does the same. He works in a warehouse where they sell building supplies. Doors mostly. He manages ex-cons for ten to twelve hours per day and then comes home and drinks gin and tonics and smokes American Spirits. I keep saying “we’ve gotta quit doing this” and he says “yep” and then we don’t.

Technology is a series of petty frustrations. Nothing fucking works right and if it did, it would still be stupid. I’m an AV integrator. That means I struggle with stupid bullshit all day; wireless mics drop out, switchers crash, transmitters stop transmitting – there really isn’t anything in AV that works consistently. I’m constantly hanging giant TVs (ninety inches minimum to see an Excel spreadsheet clearly) on walls and getting my hands cut up from running cables. And I hate TV. I don’t even have a TV. People ask why and I say “to keep the Jews out of my head” but honestly, I’m too lazy and unenthusiastic to watch anything. Or too drunk.

I’m about to have my second yearly review for this job and I’m about to turn twenty-eight. I cannot remember the last two years at all. It’s because I’m inexplicably tired all day, every day. I wake up early and I’m tired. I force myself to the job site and I’m still tired. I got to lunch and get more tired. I go home and drink and smoke and briefly don’t feel tired, then I go to sleep around ten because I’m tired. I  keep my bedtime consistent in order to get nine hours of sleep which doesn’t do anything to make me feel better. I’m still tired. I dream I’m drinking water at Nigel Farage’s house – right out of the sink. My subconscious is telling me I’m dehydrated. I need to get up so I can get on this conference call. “State your name” then that creepy beep. “Let me give you the elevator pitch. We’re gonna to revamp your huddle room…” I hate these words. They make me ill. I mute my mic and projectile vomit last night’s Heineken and ground beef into the toilet. The girl I’m banging cleaned the bathroom while I slept. It wasn’t dirty.

June Three: My Favorite App

We’re too distracted these days they say. That’s what people do when life gets all fucked up. They find distraction. I’m not going to get into a “materially wealthy but spiritually bankrupt” diatribe but, you know, that stuff is all true.

Every day I drive an annoyingly long distance through the suburbs to get to the highway. Down a long, hot stretch of pavement with its traffic, it’s congestion, its ugly people driving their jalopies that spew out shitty air that happily bypasses their broken EVAP systems. They sit in their cars with their fat rolls spilling over their seatbelts, sloppily eating fast food that drips all over them. Some of them wander around the Target parking lot high on methamphetamine, turning their ghoulish faces from side to side, sticking their tongues out and smacking their lips. Mutants. This place is a fucking dump. A war-torn city in the Middle East has more charm because it was at least nice at one time. This place was designed ugly. I drive past a giant billboard that reads: DON’T FEAR ISLAM, UNDERSTAND IT! with some Asian cunt in her Muslim garb giving me the thumbs up. The mutants j-walk in the searing heat. All plant life is dead. There’s just one strip mall after another, all with the same banal architecture. One place after another where you can spend your money on stupid shit you don’t need or food that’s completely devoid of any nutritional value. Most of America looks like this to some degree – fucking ugly. There’s no way to traverse the landscape by foot. It’s too fucking big anyway. You have to drive a car. So I get into my car that runs on miracles and expensive fuel, with its dents and scars and leaky fluids and its shot EVAP system and I distract myself by listening to Rhapsody: unlimited music streaming to your iphone for only $10-a-month. First month is free.

Feburary Twenty-one: Early Mentorship

I worked this entry-level IT support job in a state office when I was nineteen. I had this boss who did a ton of coke and meth and drank until he did Twelve-step and now he believes dinosaurs and humans coexisted. A programmer at the office liked to say he lived in a “Flintstones world.” We worked in a cramped room full of boxes and computers. There were three guys in tech support besides myself: two Asians who the boss called Top and Ramen and this skinny kid with a morbidly obese girlfriend. The skinny kid grew a ZZ Top beard and wore barefoot-running shoes and a wrinkly t-shirt with a dinosaur on it every day. He met his girlfriend on an obscure MMORPG and they fell in love over the chat program ventrillo. She lived in Florida at the time. He had a picture of her on his phone where she appeared relatively thin with short hair. When she came to visit she was three-hundred pounds with long hair. I met her when I went to his house one day after work for some reason. He lived in a shitty Victorian with no insulation that reeked of cat piss and she was there folding his laundry and sweating profusely. She looked like a fat house servant only white. They’re married now and he mortgages a house in a bad neighborhood, has a dog and still works at the same office only he has a salary position now. He told me to get a dog because it’s a great way to meet woman.

We were severely underworked so the boss would sit and tell stories of the good old days when he was an out-of-control drug addict. He used to hang out at this half-century-old bowling ally when he was younger. Him and his friends would smoke pot outside and then play arcade games all night. They shut that place down. The scumbag janitor was banging kids or something and I guess it got a bad rap. People stopped going.

He did coke with the Deaftones once in their van. He was slinging it in those days. The band members all did a line and he went ahead and did the biggest line (which he reenacted for us with a dramatic gesture, sniffing half his desk). He claims the singer said “Goddamn” when he did his line and he responded with “who’s the fucking rockstar here!?” As far as bosses go, you could do a lot worse. Sometimes I even miss working for him – and I hate working.

December Twelve: Bodies

I took a class at the community college. A persuasive speech class. A lot of crazy and lazy students giving speeches. A speech on “the ninety-nine percent” and some vague notion of solidarity. Trite socialist non-arguments and nonsense words strung together with stoned passion. A speech on free energy machines. Big oil killed everyone who tried to make one. You can harness the earth’s natural energy fields and power your home, you know, if big oil didn’t kill the inventors and steal the prototypes. Same reason they killed Tesla.

I was outspoken in class, questioning claims to knowledge that seemed baseless (there were many). I cracked jokes. I made the class laugh dozens of times while everyone else acted uptight and shy and stoic. I gave a speech attempting to dissuade my classmates from pursuing higher education and incurring the absurd costs. It seemed like a delightfully appropriate speech to give to a junior college class. I asked them if they wanted to be indentured servants to their student loans. I told them they would never be truly free or at ease with debt hanging over their heads. I told them what a Bachelor’s degree in a liberal arts subject is worth. A good speech touches the heart before it touches the head.

There was a girl I sat next to in class. She looks like she’s fifteen. Her face is beautiful and her body is petite and she is very short. She would bend over and I would catch a glimpse of her bright red thong. I wanted to fuck her immediately. The fact that I only showed up to about half of the class sessions and always showed up late made building rapport with her difficult. We would only exchange a few words here and there but she seemed to like me well enough. After class I said “what are you doing right now? Let’s go get (on campus) coffee.” She was happy to go and so we started walking to the cafe while shooting the shit, talking about our classmates whatnot. She was shy and a little weird but seemed like she was more interesting than anyone else in the class and, you know, I wanted to bang her.

I asked what she did for work. She’s said she’s a body snatcher. She pulls dead bodies out of houses and sticks them in a fridge at a funeral home for eleven dollars an hour. They typically send her alone. This isn’t a problem because the corpses are usually in bed and she can just kind of slide them out onto a gurney and into the van. The funeral home will send another employee if the body is over three-hundred pounds or if there’s a bloody mess to clean up. She is part of the clean-up crew as well.

Lots of people die on the toilet she told me over coffee. Old people mostly. When you’re having a heart attack, she says, it feels like you have to shit. So people sit down on the can and don’t ever stand back up. They do shit too but only after dying an agonizing death, bare-assed on the cold porcelain.

Lots of people commit suicide. It happens all the time. Your neighbor could be stringing himself up in his garage right now so when his girlfriend comes home she’ll find him hanging there. “Look what you did to me, you cunt” his grimacing face says to her in the wordless language of spite. She screams and cries and calls the police. They phone the funeral home who dispatches the body snatcher. This cute little girl shows up in a size zero suit jacket. She comes in and cuts the man down and wheels him into a van that she can barely see over the dashboard of. A family member of the departed, still in shock and stricken with grief fills out the paperwork with a shaky hand. “I’m sorry for you loss” she says. “Sign here.” Day in, day out. Hopefully enough people in our area died today so she can make at least fifty bucks. She looks at dead people every day.
She sees their mouths agape, their lifeless stares.

There are trends in suicides. A gun in the mouth is still a popular choice for older men. College students have recently begun inhaling helium through CPAP masks to die in a painless sleep. She’s pulled multiple students out of dorm rooms with CPAP masks rigged to helium tanks still on their faces.

She once walked into house to find a teenage boy who had slit his wrists. He cut deep into his arteries with a razor blade. Curiously, he had bandaged up his wrists and walked into his bedroom where he collapsed with his cellphone in his hand and then bled out. He apparently regretted his suicide attempt but passed out from blood loss and died. “When you lose blood, it calms you down and it gets you thinking a bit more clearly” she tells me. Wrist cutters usually make some attempt to fix themselves – it’s not uncommon. His parents were mortified. They didn’t want to give up the body. They didn’t want to give up their son even though he was clearly dead. They questioned her identity against all reason. Is your ID badge real? Why is the van unmarked? Who the hell are you anyway!? She says “You called us or the police did. We were given your address. We’re taking him to the funeral home.”Please don’t take my boy. My beautiful baby boy.

September Ten: Burrito Run

I went to get a burrito at the drive through. My radio was off and displaying the time via bright green diodes. My windows were down because, as of tonight, the heat has broken and the cool breeze makes me nostalgic for last fall. I was happy last fall. More so the fall before that. Summers are always miserable.

There was a woman in the SUV in front of me. She looked to be about thirty with a gaunt face that showed a lot of skull. Some women get this from abusing meth, others get it from unfortunate genes I think. She ordered three burritos but didn’t use the menu as a guide at all. She wanted chicken but the chicken burrito is just chicken and tortilla. It’s a lot of chicken too. Too much chicken? No such thing – how dare I. She asked for three chicken, rice, and bean burritos. Add cheese. Her voice was so harsh and entitled. I could hardly stand it. “You always forget the cheese” she muttered. She muttered this order inarticulately into a box to someone who barely speaks English. When she pulled up to the window she said “twenty bucks for three burritos!? What the fuck is this?” There was a delay, then she paid in cash in that violent way you see people pay fines with in the parking office.

I got my burrito and paid the beautiful, young Mexican girl. “That woman was a pain in the ass, eh?” I said. She smiled. As I pulled out of the drive-thru, a city bus stopped and blocked the exit. The driver then pulled up to let me through. It was kind gesture that I appreciated. I drove around the bus and went into the parking lot to eat and watch the Kung Fu class happening in the adjacent strip mall. Inside there was a kid holding what looked like an oversized garden hoe over his shoulder. His master was coaching him and he was listening respectfully. He did some kind of dance with the garden hoe over his shoulder. He didn’t swing it or use it as a weapon at all. He just sort of did some weird stances with it. After he finished, he placed it on a rack next to some spears and other mock Chinese weapons. Afterwards, he got into his tan Prius and drove away. I watched him as I devoured my calorie-heavy burrito. I heard somebody yelling on the other side of the lot so I drove over to have a listen.

A man sat alone on the bus stop bench. He was the same man the bus driver stopped earlier for but for some reason didn’t pick up. He was shouting but he was clearly alone and not on a cell phone. I listened. “Grandma, it’s fucking josh not me.” A pause. “Jesus was reborn once, I’ve been reborn twice!” He said this furiously. “I got kicked out of that bar. Josh was inside with his cousins and his sisters and friends and everyone. He would come out and we would smoke a pipe and tell him to sing songs. He always went back in… Fat Cats… Those fuckers wouldn’t let me in! I called the owner and that fucker just ignored me.” A long pause. “Grandma! It isn’t my fault. Grandma! They want him killed, they want his head. I’m here in fucking Sacramento all the way to Stockton they want us dead and I ain’t done shit to them. They fucking know me in Stockton. Grandma!” I could see him well. He had a goatee and looked to be in his thirties. He had a lot of cheap tattoos and was wearing a tank top and white tube socks that were pulled up from his work boots. He kept his head turned ninety degrees to the right, addressing Grandma who wasn’t there. I felt sad immediately. Not for him so much, but for his grandmother. She had taken care of him I assumed. She still does I’m sure. His parents are absent and he is schizophrenic. He loves her. She is of a generation that does not abandon their own. She is probably dull but loving. She doesn’t know another life and she keeps hers together as well as she can. She is a widow. She gives him some of her social security money. She lives in an apartment and he drinks and smokes and sleeps on her couch but she loves him and he loves her. He screams her name apologetically. He’s ashamed of what he is but he cannot help it.

I heard him screaming for forgiveness as I drove off. The light turned green as soon as I got to it and I went home. I got a Violent Femmes record in the mail today and it sounds good through my thrift store receiver. It’s powerful and heavy but has a hum on the phono input at high volumes. I like it though. My girlfriend used to say the Violent Femmes song ‘Add it up’ reminded her of me. Mostly the line “just one fuck” she would jest. Now it reminds me of her. I’m alone and the hippy girl with purple hair who I want to bang isn’t returning my text.

July Twenty-Nine: California Bureaucracy On A Hellish Summer’s Day

“Today is the day” I told myself. Time to give in and throw away the money required to get my driver’s license back. I’m leaving to go work in Atlanta in two days and I will be driving a rental car the whole time I’m there. The last thing I want to do it get arrested for some stupid bullshit on the other side of the country. I figured I didn’t have much of a choice but to get all of my fines and DMV shit taken care of today.

I drove to the courthouse. Passing through the metal detector, I threw my phone, keys, and money clip into a dog bowl to be x-rayed with incredible efficiency and I proceeded to walk into the lobby. A short, fat, female officer with a weathered face waved me through the metal detector in the most condescending way possible. She motioned to me as if I was a retarded animal who someone had dressed in a three-piece suit for their amusement. This gesture removed all doubt that she was, in fact, as miserable of a cunt as I had judged by her to be by her appearance. I gave her my best “I would love to kill you with a nine iron” look as I passed her and I walked into the room where it looked like people were queuing up to be raped. I stood in line, ready to pay my fines. One for speeding and the other for not showing up on my court date. The people in line with me ranged from merely low class to barely human. It was an orgy of rolls of drooping flesh, Chess Piece Black tattoos, and children drooling on their mothers’ FUPAs. There was one old man in a plaid shirt who looked like a decent person who probably got fucked by a cop for some obscure traffic law like “failure to stop at a red light” or something. I was embarrassed. I wanted to tell him that not everyone younger than him looked or acted like these people but, of course, I didn’t say a word. My pity for the old man ended abruptly when some cunt got on the intercom and in a lethargic, barely audible voice directed our attention to this new piece of technology that was sitting on the wall opposite of the roped-off line we were in. It’s a kiosk where you shove your driver’s license into the slot and it tells you how much you “owe” the government. You then stick your credit card in the same slot and it sucks that amount of money out of your account. There is no “are you sure?” dialogue or anything, you just put your credit card in and it spits out a receipt. It’s reminded me of losing a bet in a casino. My money was just gone. It felt violent. I took my receipt and walked into the lobby looking for someone who looked half-way competent to answer a question but only found the two cops looking bored by the metal detector. I asked the male cop if they would unsuspend my license now that they had my money and he told me I would have to go to the DMV to do that. There would, of course, be an additional fee for this. He was pretty nice actually and we shot the shit for a minute. It was just his coworker whom I wanted to see dead or horribly maimed or both. He told me to drive down to the DMV on Broadway and I could get my license back. I looked at him, suspicious of entrapment and said “but that would be a crime, right?” He laughed and said “I guess so.” He didn’t give a fuck. I liked him. I was parked right out front of the building and I’m sure he saw me get into my car and drive away.

There’s nothing quite like a California Department of Motor Vehicles. It is the closest thing to Hell that actually exists. It’s slow, it’s inefficient, it stinks, the employees are mean as fuck, and it costs a lot of money to do anything. Just being there is soul destroying. That being said, I had a good time. I walked through the doors and immediately some gruff, tall man with a white goatee put his hand on my shoulder. He told me he was in line. I figured he didn’t want to stand outside since the line was going out the door and it was hot outside, so I stood by him as if the line had a little curve in it. He said I should get back in line. I didn’t know what the fuck he wanted and I started to ask him what his deal was when interrupted me. “Just remember” he said. “I’m behind her (pointing to the woman in front of me) and in front of you (pointing to me). I don’t stand in lines. If you’ve been where I’ve been, you wouldn’t stand in lines either.” He clearly was referring to prison. I nodded as though I sympathized with him and stepped up to wait in line behind this woman who was short and fat as fuck. She was young (21 maybe) and had a face caked with foundation to cover her ghastly complexion. She wore giant sunglasses (inside, mind you) that made her look like a bug. She held an over-sized smart phone in her hand and began typing furiously on it. She was posting a picture of the DMV line on her Facebook with the caption “ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!?” This amused me. This line was actually pretty short by DMV standards. I continued to watch her hack away on her phone. It wasn’t thirty seconds later when she started another message. “SOMEBODY HAS BAAADDDDDD B.O. IN HERE O~O.” I hoped it was me because I really did stink, but so did a lot of people in that line. I waited in this long, slow, snaking line and listed to the song “Spooky” on my iphone. There were a bunch of people in line that were disgusting here too. And there was an old man in a plaid shirt who probably will have his license taken away in less than five years. I once again felt the need to say something to him and I felt like an asshole for wearing headphones for some reason. The ugly bitch ahead of me hacked away a third message that was more snarky bullshit I’m sure. I only made out the word “SERIOUSLY???????” I laughed out loud a little bit at this one. Some black kids were having a play fight in the doorway and one of them threw water at the other, hitting an older Indian man.

I spotted an Eastern European girl of about sixteen waiting to take her driver’s test with two of her friends. She was wearing a Navy blue skirt and a light blue top. She had a beautiful face and lovely breasts and long, perfect looking legs. She wore black high-heels; one propped her up while the other lay carelessly dangling, almost perpendicular off her left foot. She was smiling. She was about to get her driver’s license. I hope she passed her test. I would allow myself to be enamored by her feminine beauty for a while then I would shift my attention to the pig-woman in front of me and I would become disgusted. Then I would look back at the lovely Slavic girl and let my eyes relax. Like going from a cold swimming pool to a hot deck, the contrast somehow made things more satisfying. When pig got to the front of the line she was told she would have to wait again for her number to be called. The actual waiting room is what you get access to once you’ve made it through the line. That is where the real wait is. The line is just preseason! The DMV employee at the head of the line told Pig that she would have to wait some more and so she stormed out. I’m sure another angry Facebook post ensued. I left the DMV for a while for some food and came back in time for them to call my number. The employee was curt with me. She didn’t believe I was number 185 until I dug the slip out of my jacket pocket and tossed it on her keyboard. I asked for my license back and she said I couldn’t get it until I paid the court the money I owed. I started to show her the receipt but she told me she couldn’t accept it. She said that I had to wait for the computer to show it as paid. I would just have to come back.

My license is still suspended.