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the saddest blog that ever was
5.08.2006:
its for eighteen ayem and ive just listened to green mind for the eleventh time in a row (though i live for that look never tires, cuz i do, i live for it) and i fought with chris again for the thousandth time today. its nice to come back to this empty space and think that no one will ever come visit here anymore, all pertinent visitors long jumped ship. i even went back to sexybird right now, which is also down and out. anything to avoid the uncanny. i dont think i've ever typed his name out loud on this dude-blog here. yet this entire fricking fucking stupid blog was about him, is still about him, about how he makes me sad, makes me ridiculously happy, how we drive each other sheerly insane day in and day out. why? who knows. i blame the tap water in new york city, full of nefarious, insidious, disruptive elemental figures, shadowy on the edges of our tongues, always ready to drop like a fat bomb of water on the most humid day of the year: downpour, splash, we both put off by each over like wet salivating dogs growling for the same ragged piece of ham. bone of who's right and who's wrong. i'm always starting fights, he manipulates situations to make me think i've lost my mind. i've lost my mind. he's threatening to fight. i dont know how to kiss a boy anymore, its like it leaked out of me in dreary bleachy waves and i just smell fart all day long or something. that's probly myself actually. am i really a wreck ol' duude? i look at myself everyday, even two or three times a day. i see a skin that's lost some its luster, and the teeth are more buck than ever, eyes are failing more rapidly than i'd like to admit staring at computer screens ten hours a day. how do people with desk jobs do it? how does chris do it? i see him working so hard day and night, especially night, on that lcd screen and the font is like pinpricks large, little diamonds who only wink at me, i have no idea what they say, how do his eyes not roll themselves inside out and yell mutiny!! this is what it means, what is comes down to: i can't do that. i can never do that, the time in front of a computer burns me down faster and quicker and drier and sharper, into a more bitter crisp than those other stronger-eyed types. i give unless i have something at the end of the day that soothes my eyes. my happiness from giving out used to be his smell, the way i slept so soundly next to him, how sitting in his car or his apartment was similar an experience to sitting in his mind on those days when he let me into his apartment: warm, slightly sticky, a few moments of boredom, infinte moments of gentle charming laughter, strange disquietude that always reminded me of that line in nabakov's where he says: 'you are my tall cool glass of water.' but like arrested development says: 'i am still thirsty.' because i cant look at him and stay inside his apartment forever. i might if i could. but i know that he wouldn't let me. and besides, people aren't supposed to orient their lives around another person, at least not in this most capitalist of all cities in this most capitalist of all countries. and after all, at the end of a day of looking at the computer all day long, the only thing that allows me the possibility of not having to look at a computer all day long is the fact that all this computing comes out of a printer and i turn it into another human being, or i speak it to a bunch of other barely human computer-oppressed beings and an alphabetic letter is logged onto a piece of paper and that paper will determine what and where and how i do the rest of my life trying to avoid having to look at a computer all day long.
Blog // 4:21 AM
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