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Twisting all the bad things into good

Dec 1, 2012

Pride and Gory. CHAPT 27


        The reality of the individual ... 
       is an incoherent reality and must be expressed incoherently.
        Samuel Beckett

MONDAY. 10/13/10

     Unless I decide to write myself into my own version of history book, nobody will know about the glory of my epic victory at The Battle of My Bulge, or about domino and Pictionary battles also won with my eyes closed, but with a lot less effort.

     So, yeah, I was expecting more than pride and glory stories about what a hero I am for beating off myself and some overly medicated mental patients. My habit of slamming down my game winning domino and announcing "Dramaho" was the only dramatic content in the rec room not ripped from the headlines to be solved by the
on again off again love of that drama ho Carrie Bradshaw's life.

     Definitely, nobody will win the Best Editing Award on this one.

     I thought by now, I'd know what this was all about.

     I don't know anything about myself or anyone else that I didn't know when I was brought here in handcuffs six days ago.

     I thought I'd walk out of here as someone who went soul searching and found some profundity I could share with others who wanted to transcend our everyday consciousness without hallucinogenics or yoga. I wanted to become the type of person who used words like "profundity", and who could write such a word without it being underlined in red by spell-check.

     But as fate would have it, 'tis not my fate to emerge from the dark waters an intellectual, my thoughts diving no deeper than the shallow end of the 5 foot deep pool I nearly broke my goddamn neck in, but luckily walked away with only my head split open and a back fucked up not nearly enough to justify the near future painkiller epidemic only an MRI away.

     This is me, getting ready to walk away again, with a slightly damaged dome and a back that I'm not even sure would hurt if I could find a miracle cure like stretching, or yoga, or an 800mg Ibuprofren, or not spending 24/7 in bed feeding my other less expensive but more fattening addiction, cheesecake, the crack-cocaine cut with heroin of desserts.  
     Goddamn cheesecake. 
     It was all I thought about during the 3 minutes of the day when I wasn't thinking about pills. Why must it be that all things awesome must be bad for us?
     Devil cheesecake.
     You're the worst and best thing that ever happened to me.
     Trying to kick you would make kicking oxycodone seem as difficult as kicking the junkie you arrived home to find withdrawing on your bathroom floor after he broke in and killed your mother and raped your father.
     I can't make it on my own.
     I never have, and I doubt I ever will.
     Fucking cheesecake.
     I could no sooner quit you than bake you.
     Maybe I'll find me another good girl, who can bake cheesecake like my ex, except my new better girl would never go from acting like a little housewife to acting like a big whore within 9 days of leaving me. Probably 9 days before she left, but I don't know.  

     I don't know anything I didn't know before I came to South County, except that some crackheads, or maybe just Sparky, refer to crack as "jimmy" and that it must be physically possible to hang yourself with shoelaces, that is, if you're lucky enough to be wearing shoes when the cops come to institutionalize you.

     You might consider those to be valuable life lessons, if your life ambition revolves around gaining an extensive knowledge of crack jargon, or if you're a lowlife who wants to be prepared for your inevitable second and third Baker Act, or if you have nothing else but shoelaces to choke yourself with the next time you do that autoerotic assfix....whatever it's called, that jerking off thing nobody does until they're found dead, just hanging out, naked, with their desktop blaring the sounds of Steven doing more than sleeping with Danger. Even then, the family of the sexual deviant defends his sexual deviance, saying things like, "My husband was a devout Catholic, he would never choke himself out while masturbating to pornography. He was only trying to kill himself", or "I've known my father my whole life, and never once in 13 years did I see him choking his chicken and himself at the same time. I did find some really gross stuff on his computer though. Girls getting choked, and slapped, and pissed on, and shit on, and vomited on, and there was this one where these two girls had this cup and they...I can't talk about it, if I even think of what those 2 girls with the cup did, I'll vomit all over you like you were that barely legal Japanese girl in the bathtub. I just miss my dad. But I know he'll always be with me, watching over me. I just hope he leaves my room while I'm watching the porn collection I just inherited from him. I'm sorry, I need to be alone. I'll be in my room."

     Between never soliciting a prostitute and having no desire to do or even watch filth like that poor kid found on his dead dad's hard drive, I'm thinking I'm a pretty normal dude.

     There's hope for me after all. 

     Because I can convince myself of anything.


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