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the saddest blog that ever was
4.14.2004:
helmut took to the bottle rather late in his career. it was the fault of a new apartment; the new city did it; don't lets forget those three new foreign and hapless roommates and the other boy their friend who kept coming over and who smelled just like a cat and had green cat eyes and funny fur like a cats but somehow would never let himself be petted and remained immobile, petulantly curled on the couch shedding hair: they did nothing but encourage him to waste his genius. it was ballantine at first, where under a gummy layer of plastic (so as to protect the beer from the poisonous ink you know) the bottlecaps' insides were emblazoned with entertaining word puzzles that actually took more than a few seconds to solve. but really, these did not interest him. soon it mattered none whether it was ballantine or budweiser or brooklyn lager.
to give helmut credit, he only stuck to beer. yet beer presented its own special and particular problems. the accoutrements of beer were irresistible to helmut, and helmut was gaining lots of weight, gettin' heavy. the doctor put him on a diet and told him he had a bad case of gingivitis. he was not getting any exercise. his best friend had left him for sunny san diego after they had lived together in a spacious warehouse with a guinea pig in east oakland. helmut didn't even get to keep the pig. perhaps helmut was getting depressed. he entertained vague fantasies of getting high, all the time. maybe that's what new york did to everyone in the first four months. the rain, the slosh, the sloth. he was getting stupider! the magic was lost, the charm gone, all pretense of intellectualism evaporated with each night's forty and each episode of the o.c.
helmut even started developing an intense burning crush on the cat-boy who came over all the time. he made him laugh and he made it okay that helmut's other roommates picked their noses right in front of him without even bothering to hide it and tried to spy on him while he was taking a poo. was helmut gay? frightening thoughts plagued him ceaselessly. his roommates called him fat, pointed out that his crap smelled more than anyone else's, was larger than all theirs...Him: Helmut! who were they?! the chinese one who was blind as a bat claimed to see lumps on his neck which she said were tumors. then she giggled about it like the word tumor was so funny. and she walked around everywhere under a children's umbrella colored hot pink and shaped like a rabbit with protruding nylon "ears." She was almost thirty! there was no doubt in Helmut's mind that he was being persecuted mercilessly.
but there was cat-boy. cat-boy was allright. he paid for most of the beer and brought over these tiny square white castle brand sandwiches with only a thin slice of meat, a thin slice of pickle and a squirt of ketchup. helmut loved those. also, cat-boy was the only one who mentioned Helmut by name when he left messages on other people's phones. usually this was when cat-boy was drunk, and when they were drunk together, Helmut felt alive, like he could follow the trail of beers and chase broken bottlecaps to the ends of the earth. instead, all day he sat in front of the window staring out the screen dampened by constant rain, wishing for some binoculars. WHEN WAS IT GOING TO END??!!??!!
to be continued...ana, the new temptress, moves in and restores helmut's masculine virility with an endless supply of drugs and mysterious playthings...
Blog // 6:26 PM
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