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@odjdu <- the letters make a funny face.

021414

I am disengaged.  My disengagement is pronounced.  I love, but I don’t trust anything that I love.  Everything that I love plots to kill me.  Everything that I love seeks to take advantage of that love and use it to make a game out of me, to harm me, to do me wrong.  I don’t trust anybody or anything.  Therefore, I myself cannot be trusted.  I can’t even be trusted to take the blame.  I can’t even be trusted to know when I’m wrong or accept my faults because the things that I am attentive to may not always be the things that are right, but I attempt to be impeccable regarding the things that I am attentive to. 

I am attentive to detail.  Every little thing has to be perfectly aligned before it can go out.  It’s not that I’m OCD about it, I just need to know that I did a good enough job that it will go out.  My boss can trust me.  In that sense I am a tool.  I am a trusty tool.  My manager will say to me do this and I’ll do it.  My manager may say to me do that and I’ll do that too.  My manager, however, may not have my most long term interests in mind, I wear out.  My manager is only human.  My manager is not even just a man, she’s a woman.  I need to burn her, but I haven’t found the opportunity yet. 

If I could find the opportunity to change the way I am, wouldn’t I?  I am in Hell, bound for further Hell, and St. Valentine is not at my aid.  Why?  I can’t get a fuck.  I can’t fucking fuck.  Is a willing participant not legally required to fuck?  Love.  Who do I love?  I can’t say who I love.  I am not tenaciously in love.  I want to be tenaciously in love, but I get distracted, so I’m not.  I think I love somebody else.  I think about one person and then I think about another person.  If anyone close to me were to die, I’m not sure I would cry.  I’m not sure I would feel sorry.  I’m not sure I would give a fuck.

Why don’t I love?  I expect something in return.  I expect everything to always be even when the balance is generally not.  If I have the advantage I’ll keep it.  I want to be up and stay up.  I want to be buzzing.  I want to say the right thing at the right time and have control of the crowd.  I want to be a comedian.  I think I am a funny man.  Can a comedians love?  They laugh at tragedy.  It’s an attempt to feel good always.  The result is a depression punctuated by a few high highs that keep chasing an infinite plateau of  universal platitude.  The sad thing is, I don’t even remember all the few good times because I was drunk.

The sad thing is, I have lots of ambition.  I have plots and plans to pull my eyes through.  I have staggering luck.  I can get out of potentially rowdy situations.  When the going gets tough, the tough get going.  I can recognize a scene I don’t want when I don’t want one.  No, I don’t want another drink here, my prospects are limited, I’m playing the odds, and they’re not looking good.  There’s some old bag I could have in the bag, but do I want her?  Not with my eyes closed.  I’m a young buck and I want a young fuck.  Is that so much to ask?  May I have a young fuck?  May I have her with teeth?

The sad thing is, I have standards set too high.  I expect more of the world than I expect of myself.  I process what passes my desktop utopia unthinkingly, thinking about not this object under my nose.  Every time I sign my name to something, it says something about me.  What?  That I catch and release.  Time and space correlate.  I fish.  I am a fish.  I am a sponge.  I am an amoeba.  I am a protoplasm.  Stock photographs of every thong around, stock Victoria, KILLJOYKILLJOYKILLJOYKILLJOYKILLJOY!  Serious laughter with tears, the end of something lovely or awful. 

In the future, I fast forward.  Kerning boredom.  What can I do to make this go faster?  Do it quick!  RADOFF, the pride killing injury, yawning, fades into a blink stare.  Impulse tells me to take more out of regular force of habit to action.  All of a sudden I think this is smart, which is scary because of karmic justice.  Revealing intelligence limits excuses.  All of a sudden I’m all out.  I’ve played my last held card.  I’ve gambled every deck before I finished every bottle.  While they restock, I have another go around.  Casinos hyperbolize the American system of corporate capitalism.  Rich in one lifetime?  Quick!