Wednesday, March 09, 2005

journal entry - 2/26/2005

My place feels like that time Brian and I got shit faced drunk and passed out with Jill on my bed after having done cocaine until 10 AM at Steve’s. It has that silent, hollow and dirty feeling.

My colleagues think I’m an angel. They have a “husband” checklist where they evaluate all my good qualities. They think that I’m ripe for the picking. I suppose I am. I suppose that I am ready for what’s next. But they don’t know. They don’t know the me that sits here and writes. They don’t know the me that smoked mad amounts of marijuana last week and Mexico. They don’t know that right now I’m all twisted up inside because I don’t know what I want next. They don’t know that. They think I’m an angel. They think that I’m a little saint – good looking and precious, just precious. They don’t know that I sit there and think about sex and underwear and drugs and fucking and more drugs and traveling and leaving and escaping and writing. … Well maybe I don’t think about all those things in that order to those degrees.. but I do think. I do have naughty thoughts. I do have sick thoughts. Like when someone is talking and I think what if I just threw a glass of ice cold water on them or spit in their face or punched them real hard. Or what if I just went psycho on somebody and screamed and yelled and cursed and kicked and punched. What if I did that? They do not know that. They do not know that person, that sick, sick individual. They don’t know that guy. That weird, lonely tortured, shut in, introverted, perverted, psychotic, egomaniacal, narcissistic, sick fucker of a fuck. They do not know that devil. That handsome devil who wears angels wings most of the day, but hangs them up from time to time. Those times when he needs to be a twisted weirdo.

I’ve got a full belly right now. Full of shit. Full of bowel movements that are hours and hours away from pushing out. When I was shoving that last bit of deep fried banana cinnamon drizzled shit in my mouth and bragging to my colleagues that “I have a bottomless stomach,” I knew that my wanna be skinny ass could not handle it. I knew that I would be uncomfortable and want to puke or shit or fart or burp and that I would be puking, shitting, or farting, or burping if I wasn’t careful. Instead I just continued to stuff, stuff, stuff. Maybe I was doing it because I felt comfortable and I was around comfortable people and it felt like family and I felt like I could do that around people who made me feel like that. Just stuff that shit down your throat so twelve to fourteen hours later you can shit it out and start eating your salads and soy all over again. So you can shove all that granola shit in your mouth one more time to think that what you are eating is healthy, healthy, healthy. Then you can turn around the next day and have a piece of bloody meat or drink a tall glass of cold draft beer or drink some cocktail and then brag about how fit, fit, fit you are and how much running and cycling you do. You can talk and smile and boast and be witty and charming and talk about everything and nothing. You can do that thing where you sound eloquent and there are words coming out of your mouth but you really do not know where they are going and you think, Shit, these people are waiting for my next word and I have no fucking idea what I’m going to say, and then you say and it kind of sounds good so they just agree with you because you’re such a swell guy, a loveable sweet guy who knows how to act. You can do that really good when you want to. You’re really crazy, but you get the job done.
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