Limping Through the Fire

I often wish they sold silence on iTunes so I could walk around listening to it turned right up and drown out all the noise. And sure, that’s a real faggoty/cut myself thing to say, but that’s what I wish, so fuck you.

And I often wonder if there’s anyone else out there who finds it hard to give a shit about anything. Is there anyone else who pays $1,000/month for a shoebox in Bushwick? You know your three roommates are fucking you up the ass on the rent, but every month you bend over and wipe a mouthful of spit over your asshole because you don’t give a fuck. You’re stuck on one meal a day and the bum on the train who is asking for money has better shoes on than you do. But you don’t care enough to do anything about it.

Is anyone else’s mother dying of cancer? And do any of you whose mum is dying of cancer lie in bed at 2 in the afternoon and try to cry, try to think sad thoughts, but can’t. Does anyone else just not give a fuck?

Surely you’ve woken up one morning, your alarm’s gone off. You have to get up and get ready for work because you’re on your last warning after last weekend when you drunk until 9am and slept all through the next day. So you’ve had a $5/hour pay cut, and one more slip up and you’re fired. You go to get out of bed, wipe the sleep out of your eyes maybe, but you hear the couple in the apartment beside yours having sex. And of course you haven’t had sex in a couple of months, and the last chick you did have sex with was ugly and awkward. And she was kind of fat. So you throw the covers back and start jacking off. The girl starts moaning louder which is great for you. Then you hear the guy cum, which isn’t as good. So they’ve finished and you’re halfway through with your dick in your hand. You think about the job, you look out the window and it’s not snowing. And then, surely you’ve finished yourself off, cleaned up, and gone back to sleep. Surely there are others that have said fuck it.

It’s a strange thing. Is it apathy, or depression, or alcoholism, or the drugs? Maybe it’s some of all four, though I have a feeling that one of the above is causing the rest, I just can’t figure out which one. And then I hear a Rolling Stones song and I care again. I feel. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s there. I’m annoyed, and angry, and a little excited. Jagger is a pussy. That’s it! He’s a pompous fake. He prances around sucking his own dick, posing as an everyman when he came straight out of the queen’s cunt itself. I shut my laptop and throw it off my bed onto the wooden floor. I go to sleep and wake up at 6pm feeling back to my usual self.

I get up and get dressed without showering. It’s been a couple of days now without bathing, but it’s cold and no one’s getting close enough to smell me anyway. I leave the house and head for the bar. Why I head for the bar, I don’t know. I have drink at home, enough for the night anyway. But I head for the bar. 

As I walk in and sit down I get smiles and a glass of water. G&T please. The bartender doesn’t know what he’s doing; he’s new to this, but I still tip him well because money fucks me off. I hate it. It clamps us all. It rips our humanness out of us; it takes our souls and leaves us shrivelled up excuses of people. And then we kill each other, not for good reason, just for money. And so I unload my money on the bartender: two dollars, three dollars, five dollars a drink—and I can drink. And I know I’ll get a call on Monday telling me I’m fired. Or maybe I won’t get a call. Maybe it’ll be an email. Either way, I know there’s no job and no money. But I also know that I’m free from that poison: work, sleep, die. If you spend your time working to live, then you’re already dead. So as of today, I’m properly alive. 

Anyway, I sat at the bar drinking until it closed. Eventually I was drinking for free because I’d given all my money as tips. I had drink and no money, but I felt good and poor.