Kinda Tempted To Make An NSFW Blog. Yeah. Be More Open About My Freaky Side.

Know what's cringe?

Dating sites and dating profiles.

I’m tryin’ to try

but if I die

I’m like, “Okay. Yeah.”

Sunday afternoons are a bad trip

without a sitter

without a map

without old men with kind eyes

who tell you exactly where the fuck you are

and how to get back home.

Thursday

I sit down at my desk, open a Word document and start typing away. Nothing like inspiration has hit me. No burning bush. No getting struck blind with the truth while hearing the voice of God. The office is quiet. I’ve said my good morning to the office manager as is always my custom. She’s a sweet lady.

It occurs to me that what I’m doing here is writing just to get something down. It really doesn’t matter if it’s complete garbage or not. Just do it. Nike that shit.

I sip from my second cup of coffee today. I have one cup of coffee at home, another when I get to work and some decaf in the afternoon while I’m just coasting through the second half of the day (hopefully).

I’ve worn a collared shirt and khakis every single day that I’ve been employed here. I could probably get away with dressing a bit more relaxed but I don’t. Even though I’ve developed quite the disdain and skepticism for authority, I still tend to follow rules. I try to look as respectable as I can even though the idea that someone is respectable due to wearing a collared shirt is almost unspeakably stupid. Maybe I manage to completely undermine my air of respectability by wearing my collared shirts untucked though. I mean, I used to tuck them in but they kept coming untucked so I just wear them untucked.

I’ve been in this habit recently where I sit down at my desk at work and begin writing. I do it “now” instead of waiting until I get home because mostly I fear that I’m not going to have much in the way of motivation when I get home. What I’m aware of when I’m sitting in the office writing is that when I’m doing that, I’ve got the vibe of the office going on. I believe when I’m engaging in this exercise in the office, my mindset is that of the office. There is reservation in my words. I keep myself from going to certain places inside myself because of where I am. Things be calm at the moment, ya dig? Any moment though, that serenity gonna get murdered by a member of the professional managerial class. I’m always thinking about getting interrupted.

Don’t ask me what’s with that 1950s hipster language or whatever that is. I couldn’t tell you.

It’s tough to write things that aren’t just things. I’ve never put together a shopping list but I imagine that’s fairly easy. I mean, I guess it’s easy if you got the cash to cover it, right? It’s just a list though. You write down what you need and that’s it. 

Trying to write something that’s pretty and honest and makes someone cry or fucks with them or makes them angry or just mildly annoys them, that shit is nigh impossible. 

It’s Sunday. I’m not high. I don’t even wish I was (that much.) Nah, I’m indifferent to the fact that I am not high. I love being high. I dig the feeling of focus, how easy it is to smile, how sometimes it puts me in the mood for some love, how it can help me flip on a flashlight and descend into the dark cave of my feelings but I don’t need that all the time even if tomorrow I gotta punch a clock and it hurts to think about. 

If you’re reading this and the above paragraph worries you, please don’t worry. 

It’s misting outside. It’s gray. I dig it. 

Sometimes I think I should just drop all this and be a man. Learn to be alpha and all that shit. 

I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that my soul or whatever the fuck it is is the soul of an artist. My medium happens to be words. I hesitate to go around saying that shit because that’s pretentious as fuck. 

I got an appointment with a psychologist at the end of the work day tomorrow. I never really know how to prepare for those. I hope I can get something out of that. 

I’m afraid of women. I don’t know how to fix that. I have been for my entire life.

I think serial killers are not interesting at all. Serial killer groupies are pathetic. All this media that dwells on serial killers is propaganda that justifies heavy-handed policing. Fuck police states. 

I’m a weirdo but not in a particularly interesting or novel way. 

Imagination of a boy

I am the imagination of a boy 

too old to be a boy 

I'm cool as fuck 

mysterious

my soul tastes like sugar, baby

mainline me maybe 

break me 

like a third world insurgency 

and i'll write shitty punk songs about you 

that i'll stick in the mouth of some dude 

I play on Twitter 

cuz normie Twitter is lame 

and so is this life thing

c'mon, let's be real 

in the only way possible 

at the hour of late night radio in the 90s 

about psychedelics and demons 

in the only way possible 

when you're so lonely 

that you do this shit 

life and it's lameness 

tell me what the fuck that means to you 

and maybe i'll fall in love with you 

and we can be scared together 

and righteous 

and kinky 

we'll text each other and play cooler versions of ourselves to each other 

and it'll be hot as fuck 

and that'll be a thing that happened 

be one of those things you worship 

and don't remember quite right 

because 

sometimes that's all you got keeping you alive. 

Sundays, My Voice, Etc.

This is me trying again. 

This feels like trying to carry a depressed sumo wrestler on my shoulders. 

I want to say that I had something specific in my unremarkable, possibly second-hand head. I kinda do but see, I don’t really know how long I can really go on about it. 

It’s a Sunday and those are tough. Sunday means Monday comin’. Feels like the day before the chair, ya dig? Thing about the chair though. Thing about Old Sparky is that it is a cure for Mondays, right? Yeah. I don’t know if it is. I got suspicions about what happens after death and I don’t really want to discuss them with you, okay? I’d rather discuss them with a naked woman in a room full of something like love on some night that’s way too warm and sticky, maybe on some day where there is nothing else to do. 

I guess it doesn’t have to be like that. It can be with someone who has somehow become like a brother or a sister to me. There are a few like that if I really take the time to think on that. You need that or else you’re like some inmate in solitary fixin’ to bang your head against the wall. 

A moment of silence for those in solitary. It breaks my heart that that happens to anyone. I don’t care how guilty they are. Fuck. Maybe it happened to me. Maybe it will happen to me. Maybe it happened to you. Maybe it will happen to you. 

I’m trying to make this weird. Is it working? Truth be told, I hope it fuckin’ is but if not, at least I tried. 

I haven’t really tried at this in awhile. Fuck. I don’t know if I’ve ever really tried. I lack discipline. I lack focus. No Mr. Miyagi or Yoda or Mickey Goldmill is gonna show me how to get focus. 

Life has a shape, ya dig? Well, mine does. That shape is a mess. I promise I will go into details on that mess and some of those details are not gonna make me look like a big, god damn hero. Thing about life is there are no big, god damn heroes. Just people. 

That mess though. My mess. The mess I’ve made. It’s been a whole lot worse. Maybe I’m making progress. 

What was on my mind is my voice when I do this thing. Lord knows I don’t talk like this but I don’t typically get the chance to talk about anything that actually matters if I’m gonna give the vocal chords a workout. I will confess to you though that I spend a lot of time concerning myself with whether this sounds vaguely cool. 

Shit. I’m 35. I have no business worrying about what’s cool.

Am I talking about my persona on the page? Yes. That’s me being clear.

Part of me thinks I’m just not really being authentic. I’m just stringing a bunch of words together that sound cool so people think I am some great soul. Some wise soul. Like, sometimes I think about shit hitting the fan for someone. Red alert. Barbarians are at the gates. Chips are down. Abandon all hope. That person going through that wishes I was there to tell them it might be okay, that I’ve seen beyond the veil and that there is absolutely no reason to be afraid. 

I mean, what the fuck is that? There’s mountains of ego there to be sure. I just hope that that isn’t all there is. 

What is it? Okay. There’s this desire to make someone go, “I kinda know what this weirdo is talking about here. I get it. Somehow I get it and I kinda felt something.” 

I can live with that. I think. 

The Fail-Son

My parents had two kids. I’m the oldest by a year and some change. I also happen to be the one that failed. I’m the fuck-up. I’m the problem. I’m the one they worry about. I believe the prevailing term these days is fail-son.

I’m a fail-son. Being a fail-son is not such a bad gig if you happen to come from money. I do not come from money.

You might think I’m being too hard on myself. Maybe I am but what I’m doing here is telling the truth. I’m giving you the truth even if that makes me look like a feckless piece of shit.

The longest period of time that I’ve ever held a job is six years. I left that job on impulse. I left that job on account of boredom. They were going to fire me eventually. I was on and off FMLA for depression. It was only a matter of time so one day I went in, I fired off an email to my direct supervisor and told them I was resigning and that my resignation was effective immediately and that was that. Yeah, I was depressed and often was burdened with an anxiety that made me feel like the apocalypse was imminent. See, that’s such bullshit. It was always anxiety over shit that was minor. Maybe I’m gonna come in to some snippy email from the boss. Maybe I’m gonna have some awkward social interaction. When I look back, it’s clear to me that the primary motivator for walking was boredom. I gave up a steady paycheck and relative stability because I was bored.

I’ll admit that that wasn’t the brightest thing I ever did.

After that, it was about 5 or 6 years of bouncing around from bad entry-level gig to worse entry-level gig. What I ended up doing more often than not was working as a call center agent. If there be circles of Hell, I’ve very little doubt that one of them is a god damn call center. I did low-level technical support. 95% of problems got fixed by having the inept soul turn the uncooperative piece of technology off and then back on again. You might think that doesn’t sound so bad. Alright. Imagine being chained to a phone for 8 hours a day. Imagine call after call after call after call after call. Imagine doing this at odd, wacky hours. Start at 3 PM and get off at midnight. Imagine sitting at your desk near the end of your shift on your Friday (Your Friday. No one else’s Friday. You work weekends so your Friday is a Tuesday.) and you’re praying to whatever Gods may be that you are not gonna get a fucking call. See, you don’t want a call. You have no idea at all what that call is gonna be. Every time you hear that tone in your ear, it could be a simple 5 minute call that is relatively pleasant or it’s going to be that call that makes you question every single fucking decision you ever made in your life that possibly led to you sitting in that desk taking that call. So many times, the fickle finger of fate poked me in the eye and I ended up talking some guy through installing some piece of software a half hour past quitting time as he gets increasingly more irritable and pissed off. I lived in dread of that. On my days off, I still felt dread. All I could think of was going back to it and a lot of the time, I didn’t go back. I’d call in sick, stay home and live in dread of going back to the shit. I can remember driving to work and having mad envy for so many people. I envied the guy who was out running. I imagined that maybe he’d go back to his home and he’d just chill for the rest of the day knowing that he had already done the hardest thing he was going to do that day. I envied the guy who was out there landscaping. I had no idea what kinda headaches landscapers endured, but sign me the fuck up.

It got to the point where I just could not stand to do it anymore. I could not hold down a job. I could not cover my bills. I had no choice but to return home.

The home I grew up in.

The place that doesn’t quite feel like home anymore. The room I sleep in has a floral bedspread and a statue of Jesus hanging on the cross.

I come home from the office to the Fox News Channel blaring all loud, sinister and mean. The people who raised me to be decent, kind and honest believe in President Donald John Trump. My mother is a Mexican national. She speaks English but not perfectly and with a noticeable accent. This is a woman who waited tables. Fuck. I can remember being ashamed of the fact that my mother waited tables but she did that for me. I hate myself for having been ashamed of that. I denounce Trump and she tells me that I’m jealous of his success and that every woman who accused him of sexual assault was being paid to do it. My dad is a simple man. He never missed work but he bitched about work all the fucking time. When I gripe about the grind, I catch myself sounding just like him. He loves those cheesy, underdog sports movies. I think he sees me as the underdog that’s eventually gonna win. Trump is no spunky underdog but my dad is in his corner for reasons I just will never fucking comprehend.

I hate the fact that they support Trump. I cannot ever let that go. However, I’m undeniably grateful that they opened their home up to me, that they took me back in. I realize that not everyone has family that can take them in when times are tough. That keeps me awake at night.

I’m a fail-son that should be hurting a hell of a lot more but somehow I’m not.

On a summer night in mid-July

the asphalt cools from the day’s baking 

and a man recovers from a day that ends in y. 

Legs crossed on the floor like when he was a kid

Window is ajar and the breeze is sweet mercy. 

Mercy hard to come by 

even in mid-July 

if you live long enough. 

In some kinda half-asleep state some time this morning or last night, it occurred to me that life is a trip. Yeah, I mean trip in a similar sense to a trip one might take on psilocybin mushrooms or LSD. Life is the trip. It's all a trip. That sounds like utter bullshit but I mean it. I'm being completely sincere here.

I knew at some point I would touch on my exepriences with psychedelic compounds. I just didn't really know it would be today. I am not a veteran psychonaut by any stretch of the imagination and it's not something I ever thought I'd do. If you told me a decade ago that I would develop an interest in psychedelics, I would have thought you were quite insane. My experience at this current time has been exclusively with psilocybin mushrooms which are popularly known as "magic mushrooms."

The first thing I became aware of even at relatively low doses of psilocybin was my personality coming apart. Basically, I would become aware of all the parts that make up me. All of these parts are distinct.

There is a part of me that freaks out almost instantly and is basically a slave to fear. I was acutely aware of the sound of this part's voice, its presence.

There is another part that is calm, analytical. It speaks in soothing tones. It's wise. It says, "Hey. You're just tripping, dog. It's okay."

There is yet another part that is suave, ultrasexual and rarely seen by anyone really.

I can also recall being aware of the words I was saying internally being audible as a whisper in my head or something similar.

It's almost a given that I'm going to cry during a trip. I don't mind this much.

Visual hallucinations really don't intrigue me that much. It's about the thoughts that come to me.

I'm barely scratching the surface here.

I'm typing this on my phone at work. I'm trying to not look as idle as I actually am. I'm playing the part of the dutiful employee. In less than an hour, I plan on sneaking out of here. There isn't jack shit anyone can do about it.

I managed to get an appointment scheduled with a therapist on Monday.

I guesss I'll end on that note.