CaTch and ReleAse

It has now rolled over to November 4th, a suck fest of a day; I’m sick, all my friends are sick, we received this sickness round about the same time, somewhere down the long, thin road of our destructive lives we caught it.
It was my friend Blake’s birthday party; we went to some joint down on universal city walk, the tourist of all tourist places besides Hollywood. This neighborhood of restaurants and novelty shops selling overpriced crap was a decent experience, even though its grotesque mockery of humanity was an affront to my richer senses. Which people, any people; the inflicted din of commercialism is at its finest in dead ole America, land of the free and mentally dead. Christ, I’ve gone on a tangent, bleh.
So we’re sick.
Cough,
Sore throat,
Sniffles.
Fucking Migraines…
So we are eating at this place, rather good food, I can smell it, but I don’t eat. I don’t eat because I’ve grown upset with a few people in my crowd, a rather childish maneuver on my part, but my ego, and arrogance kept me through it, and onto a rather sad confrontation in the text world with a close friend. It decided to end better than I’d hoped, because I grew the parts that a man needed to be a man, and choked up the biggest apology ever.
Does that make me weak?
So what, I can be weak, deserve to be weak in this shit-crazed storm of indifference that I’ve built my hut of.
She is a great girl, worthy of such weakness, or maybe strength if you were to ask her.
I could name names, point fingers, go the whole communist, black list way, but I won’t. She deserves her privacy.
We bought some drugs this weekend, and for those anti-drug propagandists out there, I know quite a few people who are attending Harvard who’ve smoked dope half the years they spent on this planet—drugs don’t make you stupid, you do. So we received this really good deal on some primo goods. I can still feel its icky fingers working their way over me.
So, I finished the new Bentley Little book, The Vanishing; it was rather nice, I can’t stop reading his breed of common (yet fucking strange) horror.
Right now:
Talking to this very sad girl about her boy breaking her heart, I love women, love them to the very molecule they are built on. Sometimes I am rude and mean, vulgar and so unsoundly obscene that they flee, everyone flees from me, but even with all these lovely characteristics, can I not be said for a lonely girl, a girl without her boy, maybe without her second part? She’ll find him, hopefully.
“I’m the arrow, shot straight to hell.”
Nice quote huh?
Can you dig it?
Its three am, and yet with daylight savings or whatever the fucking hell it is with the time right about now, its really four…I live round the clock on a hurricane blown for a ghost town.
Halloween was a joke—a big fucking waste—the grime and shit left in a ring around an unclean toilet. I enjoyed it.
So yeah, back to the party. Blake’s surprised party, didn’t end too well, everyone was clashing, different personalities I guess, and everyone wanted to do one thing or another that never coincided with anyone else’s wants; plus we racked up a 250 dollar dinner bill … fan-fucking-tastic.
Currently trying to read a Dostoyevsky book, The House of the Dead; long effing read, but good premise, about his time in prison. Now who doesn’t like a good prison story?
So we are roaming about the city walk, I’m chain smoking a pack and half, trying to keep my cool, keep it from boiling over. Ego baby, can you dig it?
The day is drawing on and on and on. I find myself in front of this computer, in front of an open Microsoft word document, staring belligerently into the screen, wishing for words that won’t come tonight, they will come tomorrow in an insidious hang over.
Everything else is a blur right now, too much contamination in the system:
Shock!
Got a pulse?
No.
Shit, he’s gone.