I’m all used up, and I’m all turned around. Panting, eyes bloodshot, goin’ down. Fuck work. Fuck taxes. Fuck you. Fuck countries, borders. Fuck it all. Fuck the god damned dentist. Fuck the law. Fuck me. Fuck politicians. They have no power over me. Cuz I’m goin’ down. Got no hold on me, cuz I got no hold on me. Lose hold of yourself, and you are lost to the world. No one can control you, unless you allow them to. It may be the most horrible form of freedom there is, but it is true freedom. What… what? What’d I do? Why are you looking at me like that? Did I do something that offended you? Or something disgusting? Is it that horrible, so horrible that you have to look at me like that? Is it something you’ve never done yourself, or never at least thought of doing? Have you truly never found yourself in my situation, or at least come close? Well, then, I feel sorry for you. You need to give yourself some slack, dude. Ease the reigns. You too can fuck everything. Merry New Year.
What will you do when Jesus knocks on your door? I mean the Jesus. You know, the guy who died on the cross for your sins. Imagine that, such a nice fellow, to suffer horrible torture just for you. And now, here he is. He wants to stay overnight. Just enough bread there for your breakfast, and now this. Sorta inconvenient, but hey. Any cheese and crackers left…? Shit. Well, at least you don’t need any wine, he’ll deal with that shortage… so you go get some water. Then, maybe, he wants to even talk to you. I’ll just bet he does. It won’t be small talk. After all, he isn’t au courant, it’s been a while, he’ll want to get up on things.
But then again, you might not even recognize him. More likely you’ll think: who’s this fucking long-haired, bearded bum in a tunic at my door, asking for hospitality? Jeez, looks like the dude hasn’t washed his hair in weeks… bad teeth. Uh, no, sorry, you’ll murmur, closing the door as you do so, feeling slightly embarrassed. And if he puts his bare foot in the gap, preventing you from closing the door, will you squash it? But he wouldn’t do that anyway, he’s far too nice for that. He won’t say or do anything when you close the door in his face, no, no, he’ll just judge you. Whaugh! You up for that, baby? I ain’t. Happy Christmas.
You fucked. What else? You ate, and you shat. You conceived. Which brings me to my actual question: Why I before E except after C? Why?! Gnaarrrhhhh!
Being in love is hell. You thought you were suffering when you had nobody to love… just wait ’til there’s someone who you care about. Sure, you’re happy, because someone loves you, someone you love, but… you wonder. It is the fate of mankind to think. It’s our curse: a big bloody brain.
Thinking means wondering. Wondering whether she loves you as much as you love her. Wondering how you are going to make it all work. Wondering. Thinking about fucking logistics. Like: she lives in another damned town, 150 bloody fucking miles away. Driving there, you wonder about the cost of the damned gasoline. You become a mathematician… how often can I afford to see her? And then: am I crazy? How can I think of money, when I need to see her, every possible minute?
Holy shit. It’s enough to make you drink. But you can’t really enjoy drinking anymore, because you have someone who cares for you, meaning you should take care of yourself, meaning… you should eat healthy stuff, exercise, and not spend so much money on rum. No rum. After all, you don’t, oh Christ, want to disappoint her. On the other hand, she seems to know you better than you know yourself…
Oh, dear. Oh, oh, dear.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to dance in your socks. You need that sliding movement. You need to skid along the floor, like a damned ice skater. That’s the only thing that suits the feeling, the feeling… whooh! Crazy! Everything is possible. You’re a hawk, swooping down at three hundred miles an hour. You’re going to kill, you’re going to conquer. Nothin’ gonna stop you. Except maybe the rum, and 150 miles.
How do you start a story you never even wanted to write? How do you write when your fingers won’t move? How do you listen to a song you kinda… well, you like it but not enough? How do you listen to songs that make you cry, they’re so damned poignant? Or maybe they aren’t poignant at all, they are shallow as hell and you cry anyway, because you’ve become a sentimental old fool. Why? Why laugh? Why cry? Why try? And… there… is… no… time! I need more time. I… I haven’t got it yet, I need more time. I’m still in the waiting room, I haven’t even started yet, and I don’t understand what the hell is going on. And I’ve only got this one life. When it’s done, it’s done. Unless I decide to believe in god, Buddha, or whatever. And I’ll tell you one thing, ain’t no way I’m gonna do that. Not taking the easy way out, no siree bob. So I’ll ring the bells, and beat the drum, for all the good it’ll do me.
Beat the drum… I have the funny feeling I’ve got to beat it a hell of a lot louder, if anyone’s to hear it. But I’m tired, I’ve been beating it for quite some time now… guess I’m just too lazy. It’s easy being lazy. As a young man, I told myself I’d never take it easy, I’d never go slow, I’d never compromise, I’d never ever bow down. Well, I can almost laugh about that now, but only almost. At least I never did bow down, but then I never had to decide between bowing down and dying. I guess I should be happy I’ve never had to prove what I’m made of. Typical human animal: path of least resistance, here I come. So, why complain? Because I’m a typical human animal: I love to bitch.