So, yeah, a little hungover. At the airport trying to leave the conference early because my wife is sick. However, the earlier flight is delayed and will probably not leave until close to the time my original flight was scheduled to leave. And so it goes (no, that shouldn’t count).
I need to slow down on the drinking, have I mentioned that? I feel like shit, I have a belly that bunches up as I lean over to write here on these ohsocomfortable airport chairs. I have manboobs, I tighten up, I feel like I’m having muscle spasms or heart palpitations when I stretch into an even moderately awkward position. My hand shakes, or shakes now and other mornings-after. My head hurts, my eyes, my mind is not sharp (I could probably win an argument with it). I do stupid things, I swiped a piece of pizza out of a box someone had discarded outside their hotel room late last night. And ate it.
Wife just called. She seems a bit better. Looking forward to me being home. As am I. I’m also looking forward to some quiet reading time on the plane. This muzak is killing me.
I hate my job. No, that’s too strong – I’m entirely indifferent to my job. I don’t know how I could give less of a shit. I’d be displeased, it would be unfortunate and somewhat scary were I to not be paid anymore, but I think I can do just enough to keep them from firing me.
I want to start a revolution. I want to stop this war and all wars. I want to end poverty and heal the sick, make sure the unwell, both physically and mentally, are well taken care of. I want a cleaner world with less pollution, I’d like to see more decency and kindness and care towards the planet and towards each other
I also hate humanity, the filth and stupidity, the cruelties, large and small, we inflict on each other daily repulses me. I repulse myself. I detest the noise and stench of people. Urine on the streets, perfume cloaking women, insufferable in elevators, the sweat and dirt and shit and the eau de toilette used to disguise it, I find it, all cheap and repulsive. I marvel at how we mate, the lusts we feel and revel in, the pathetic consequences of the couplings which millions must suffer for lifetimes.
We suck. We as people are underperforming. Either that or the god in whose image we were supposedly made is a real dick. Why else would there be Yankees fans, why would millions bother with the addictions of movie stars, or just people famous for being famous, why would we scramble over one another for a paycheck, walk right by people sleeping on the street, why would we beat our kids, rape defenseless women, bomb and/or pay for the bombing of alleged enemies half a world away. We suck, and I would challenge anyone to produce a valid reason why any supreme creator would create such a mess. That’s nothing worth worshiping.
Worship the future, worship what we can be here today and tomorrow worship a world we can make, a world where we suck less, a world where institutionalized violence can be stopped, where we spend more money on educating and caring for the young than we do for war toys, the subsidization of defense contractors, the purchasing of politicians and the tons of treacle (tons?) the streaming treacle the entertainment (news?) industry rains down upon us.
What a diatribe.
I just want to garden and be left, LEFT, left alone. My hand hurts, sweaty and cramped writing here in a stream of too inky black ink, bad pen, bad mind, bad mood.
What strange pathetic creatures are we. How can we not be disgusted by ourselves, humiliated as we defecate and vomit and bleed and fornicate, masturbate, sweat and excrete in grotesquery. These putrid smelly obese bodies we occupy can only leave us aware of our inadequacies, constant reminders of our smallness. The praise and adulation we heap upon the beautiful is merely the flip side of this, our collective delusion, that we as humans are not the ugliest things on this beautiful planet.
Youth, purity, the idealized view of humanity’s best – it’s cliché to call it fleeting. I’d argue it never exists. From the moment we exit the womb we are in a constant state of decline, these episodes of beauty becoming more and more rare as we age and enter a stage of permanent corruption.
I have to eat something.
I went and got a sandwich.
“Is this seat taken?” There were pizza boxes there (ha).
“Yeah. Some people just left their trash.”
“People,” I said in mock disgust, exaggerated comically.
He smiled and didn’t say another word as we sat next to each other and ate our lunches, there in a crummy airport foodcourt (a Food Court?! Is there a foodcourt jester, foodcourt ladies in waiting? Ugh.)
I’m a wreck. There’s one long stream of words flowing through my head and I have to hurry back here to try to capture them, wondering the whole time why. Why does this matter, why do my meager mean meandering thoughts merit transcription, and who would read them, what good would it do if they were read, both to reader and writer.
Gray skies and that annoying dot before my eyes returns, retinal burns, I look away, but there it is, seeing spots my body rots morbid thoughts and astronauts, aeronauts. planes grounded without a crew, brain cells hounded without a clue, no idea what to do, pull a word from out my ass, this tripe’s absurd, my mental morass.
Maybe it’s just an explanation of bipolarity. Bipolar IIB, the “B” is just self-flattery. I will read now. Ciao.
Yes, freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, so said Janis in the Marriott bathroom where I took a greasy wet beershit during a break in the DRJ conference. DRJ. Disaster Recovery. Indeed.
Bipolar Like Me. Perhaps this madness isn’t mine, perhaps it’s the mad world that’s wrong and incapable of accommodating us. Us? I’m part of a group now. I’ve denounced my country, my religion, my schooling, and my living, yet I’ve now all of a sudden enrolled myself into an “Us”, this group unaligned, of pill-takers and sanity fakers – we the medicated, drugged, mildly or not so we can survive (and thrive?) in this doped up nation of ours.
The loud-talking lawyer across from me angrily speaks of suing, his client’s work-related injury is not adequately being met, the insurers seem to think there’s less that they can pay. So, firmly this hired gun will fight in any way, for his client uncompliant can be treated, or will have his treatment covered by the insurance for which he’s paid. He works, gets hurt, can’t work, can’t pay, must enlist this crass man to fight for his rights, this man who knows the system and speaks so forcefully to get what is due. Employer Insurers Lawyer. Laws and you. Wrapped up in a petty dance about life and death and money. Madness? I find it kind of funny they’ve put me on drugs to exist amongst these thugs. Take a pill and get a job, your essence we will rob, walk and talk as if you’re not you, and in all you do be sure you don’t reveal your little quirk, they probably won’t, despite your little smirk, punish you for your crime, being different, and chronicling it in rhyme. They’re just indifferent, as am I. We’ve different indifferences though, my employers try to eke out labor and I pretend to care. I ask no favor, I wouldn’t dare, I bumble through it and try to not get fired, if they intuit my working act grows tired I’m off again to try once more, to spin my sin round some other office door.
If the first one’s on you, does that mean I must have two? What to do what to do but drink another brew, the beer I fear will be the death of you.
Your ears never stop growing. I have no idea where this is going, my epidermis is showing, booze once more is flowing, her smile wry is knowing, we’ve seen your kind before, Mumbai, no Bangalore, Bombay and Constantinople, a gray and turquoise opal, so many vowels, the dingo outback prowls. The juxtaposition, a man on a mission, his public face so calm, the inner race defusing of the bomb. Ride it out, ride it out the other voices shout, I know I will I always do except that time I won’t.
Another page you drunken sage, a prophet high on life (no profit for your wife) dangerous squiggles endanger us, the wiggles, an erratic flow of giggles, buggles and snuggles with bugles and blue gulls flying free from Grace who kept them in cages where they screeched in rages until they turned blue in the face. Which didn’t take long seeing as how they were already blue and all.
Someone somewhere is growing larger ears. Don’t look back, don’t read it over, my ignorance is my four-leafed clover, Red Rover Red Rover let Bliss come over, oh how I miss the kiss of those lips loose ones sink ships an Australian never tips.
Rick Reilly’s a funny guy, I probably should try to be funny too, between me and you, and possibly Sioux, my revulsion reaches the sky.
People are sheeple law of the steeple, I need some sleep’ll do me good. I would if I could but I can’t so I won’t, so it, wait…don’t.
There’s a reason for the last drops they sunk from the tops of bottles around the world, the tittles and tottles and jets at full throttles the flapping of flags unfurled, while in the toilet, the Congressman met a man on whose shoes he had hurled.
Serves him right. Fucking narc. There in the dark or fluorescent light, where private acts distract, wheat rice and flax and memories racked, finally found the facts (for what they are). Better than bar or fucking in car Senators can easily indulge in sex with the other, a brotherly brother, sporting his impressive bulge. This is getting dirty and I’m disgusting even myself. I’ll go get flirty with Mrs. Claus and find work as a finishing elf. Pause.