Still alive, take 2.

Christ it is yet, another fucking—hot day. I’m sweating from places that I’ve never know I’d had or for that matter could sweat from. The fires are still burning, jackals with yellow teeth bared up to the red moon. I went to Star Fucks last night, ordered black tea lemonade—three pumps of classic fool, I don’t do that hippy melon shit. I tried to edit/rewrite a short story I’ve been working on for the last month, slouched my way through three or for pages before being distracted by a brunette with a can that could sway any queen back into the natural loop of things. A close friend works next door to Star Fucks, so I kept wandering over there, chain smoking between buildings. It wasn’t much more fun over there than in SF, but it was helping me work away the time. Time is such a fruitless tree that bares nothing but quagmires. Well perhaps it isn’t so fruitless, I did see the brunette with the can that could melt butter. I thought about approaching her, but she would see my vulgar emoness, and maybe the stench of stale weed on my breath and go running.

I love women to the point of death, but again I am a coward, I will watch and see when sober, and cop a feel or two, saying some cagey pick up line that I’d learned in grade school. Nothing ever works right anymore, my back is always fucked up, my muscles come and go, maybe I should keep at the gym instead of these sporadic weeks of workout and binging, ass goggling and mental masturbation….

I’ve figured I’ve touched my penis about one million times in my current state of life, and those being just taking a piss and nightly itches. I’ve probably yanked the noodle a good couple thousand times just in the past year…is that too much?

Giving and getting advice is like getting a bad blow job, you think what your giving and or getting is good, but in the end it just leaves you flustered, pent up and about to explode with hostility.

I might wander the colleges tonight with a few friends, drink out of a flask because I think it makes me cool or maybe I don’t want to share what I’m drinking, since people are less apt to ask for some when they can’t see it…thank god for the fear of date rape or I’d never get drunk. Or we might go to a hookah bar…utterly pointless when I’ve got a pack of camels in my pocket.

I was never really beaten as a child, only mutilated; racetracks to extension cords to pick your switch boy, from the mouth of an over-aggressive wife-abusing grandfather. Mowing the lawn was a grab bag for treats and abuse, break something and get the switch, do it right and you don’t get the switch but get to sit down right with everyone else at dinner. These days, aren’t the best per se, nor the worst, I’d figure I have a good amount of suck to be lived, and a good amount of senseless bliss to be felt spent between the legs of some girl, with a cheap name and even cheaper perfume.

A father told his son:

“You are betrayal kiddo”
“What’s betrayal daddy?”
“Ask you mom.”
“Why?”
“Because your not my son.”