I woke up feeling pretty good that day. That’s what happens when you drink good shit, I guess. I opened my eyes and checked my phone – 10:00 AM. A late start for the usual me but that was a good thing today. Considering I fell asleep at 4AM. I was happy with the 6 hours and a general lack of crippling headache / nausea. I could hear some fat fuck screaming in high pitch falsetto through the headphones on my desk. After a few seconds I placed it as Mahler’s Lieder #4. God that motherfucker knew time, man, he really knew. He could twist your guts to the point of vomit and then unwind it so fast and you’d feel that ecstasy that comes only after. Existence without acute pain. He knew that an acute pain heals a dull pain if only temporarily.

Then my stomach woke up and caught up with the memory of last night. I got up and turned off the Lieder. I went to the toilet and shitpissed some Remy Martin. The first bottle. God what a night. I don’t even drink often but when I do… I flushed it all down and washed my hands with Irish Spring. I came back into the bedroom and threw on the CK’s on the floor. I flipped open the machine and sat down on the wobbly desk chair. It was a cheap chair and the screws holding the legs to the seat were constantly loose. But it held up. 4 years now. The computer unfroze and showed me where we left off last night. “Molly was a dirty little girl. She called me at 12AM to see what I was doing. I told her to come over. She said I’ll see you in 15 minutes. I sat on my soft couch with my dick hard and waited for her big fat ass to come come come.” The little vertical bar was flashing after the period punctuating my lack of progress with this thing, whatever the fuck it was going to be. I wondered how many times the cursor had flashed since I stopped writing last night. I wondered how many words I could have had by now had I not stopped. Had I kept going. I did the math. 10 hours had passed. That’s 600 minutes at a decent clip of 20 words a minute. I woulda had 12,000 words by now. That’s 10 pages. Single spaced. Goddamn. That’s a lot of pages. Yeah but it probably wouldn’t have been any good. Well sure it wouldn’t be good but it would be something at least. Instead of nothing. Oh well.

I was procrastinating again. Writing another non-story again. The first 2 years, I couldn’t finish a single story I started. Why? Because there was no story. Only in the last few months I was slowly coming to terms with this non-story form and in general I was becoming ok with the uneventful anxious nature of life. Particularly my life. But even other people’s lives, which I had decided I’d rather watch from a distance rather than have any direct involvement in. Quite frankly, people bored me. I know that sounds pretentious and it is. But the conversations… they just angered me. The lack of self-awareness, the ignorance of our own biases and racisms and alcoholisms disturbed me, scared me, made me distrustful and weary of the entire species. I watched everyone critique someone for being a douchebag or an asshole but no one could admit that they were no different or that they were attracted to the very qualities they said they hated. I’m fine with the fact that everyone, including myself, is a hypocrite. But I’m not at all fine with the fact that they were lying to themselves through lobotomy. I understand lying to others. I’m a big proponent of that, in fact. But to yourself? Fuck. Well. I didn’t know how to pull all this nonsensical rambling shit into a story, so I just wrote nothing. But its not that I wasn’t writing. Because writing nothing is still writing something. I think. I thought. Maybe I did have a hangover.

My thoughts subconsciously led me to perform a sequence of clicks that found me staring at my facebook mini feed page. Jesus Christ. Everyone was getting married. Everyone. Slowly but surely. One by one. Single file line. Just like in middle school when we were heading out to recess except that back in middle school, we were all young and free and nuts and simple and we only fell in line because we had no choice. But now, supposedly, we did. Yet here we were. Posting pictures from the couples photo shoot. Some serious, some smiley, some silly but all with the logos in one of the bottom corners of whatever unknown shitty photographer they overpaid for their “professional” pictures. Everyone was a professional. And they all believe that the only thing standing between them and sweet success is word of mouth. Advertising. Self promotion. Check out my website. Follow me on twitter. Am I the only one who doesn’t give a fuck about your politics? We live in an age where everyone’s ego and self-importance is constantly reaffirmed and bolstered by comments and replies and likes and winkies and smiley faces. I wasn’t immune. I just chose not to play. I scrolled down and read another engagement status update: “Congratulations to Cockface and Jizzbucket who got engaged last night!” They advertised their happiness to the entire social media world. “I’m so happy right now! Yayyyyyy!!!” Was I the only one? At the very least isn’t it just bad taste to shout anything about yourself from a mountaintop? I scrolled down and saw that some kid from my middle school posted pictures of his newborn daughter. Everyone chomped at the bit. “How cute!” “Awwww…” Now I definitely had a hangover.

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