Thursday, October 27, 2005

Gunfire in the Jungle

9 shots rang out and echoed among the buildings. Somewhere in "The Jungle.' Probably over by Doodlehead's apartment.

And I don't even care.

I am too involved in the battle in my head. Smoke and amber bullets swirling pinging around the borders of my mind.

Sick of Religion, and the conquests and pain it causes.
Sick of all this talk of marriage, and babies, and love, and girlfriends, and boyfriends, and dating.
Sick of worrying about work, and finding another job.
Sick of The Ghetto Clinic.
Sick of barely making rent.

The Screaming Trees calm me tonight. His whiskey voice echoes my own, "shine your lonely light on me/I'll be there to hold the..."

Last week I went around with a bottle of White Out in the store and touched up the cracks and scratches on the fixtures at work. I think I met the lowest point of my career. I felt like such a tool. What have I become? I'm the fucking Gimp, the Vegetative Shell of a Man who bags your groceries.

The meds make me numb. Better, I suppose, than wanting to finish a bottle in a bloody bath.

I want out. I want in. I don't know what I want. I want to remember "what is the point?"

I nod. I smile. I say "Thank you" and "Please." I make jokes. I flirt with married or women with boyfriends. I change the subject. I am paranoid. I hold so much in contempt. I am disgusted with myself. I want to sleep with her. I want to sleep with no one. I curse my self. I ask you to come inside, and then throw you out. Can you erase someone nicely? I never learned how to live. I write Nothing. I plod along the keyboard, bored with the walk. Ghosts look at me with disappointed eyes.

I dreamed last night the store closed down. Laid-off again. It felt inevitable; meant to be.

Tonight, I nearly went to The Ho alone. Restless, I needed an "experience." The need to drink among the fellow downtrodden; tickle the underbelly and see its reaction. I needed a test for myself. You always wonder how you'd react in certain situations. But I stayed home, and I dreamed with my eyes open, leaning against the sink.

Halfway to Nowhere.

My voicemail is full of messages, but only two are for me. I can't even listen to them tonight.

The Holidays are coming again this year. Sadness and anxiety. I hate receiving and giving. I usually boycott Halloween parties. I loathe dressing up. "You can be someone else for a night." But I don't want to be someone else; yet, I don't want to be Me. What the Hell kind of conundrum is that? People behind masks scare me. I need to see/know to whom I'm talking to.

I need to see your Eyes and Mouth.

And retail just killed Christmas and Marriage for me. It just brings the Evil out in people. Jesus, who? Love, what? Peace, never heard of it.

Fuck it.
Flounder on for another day.

Seize fire for now.

5 comments:

Barb said...

Heh. I'm not one for holidays, either, Mac. You aren't alone.

Mac said...

Let's boycott the Holidays together ha ha ha.

Sherman's mama said...

Tell your pals you have been to the party ... as the invisible man.
Stay at home with Lilly.
One tin of tuna, one CD of Fear and a whole lot of kitty dancing.

Fresh Talent said...

Don't even thing about going to the Ho (without me).

And don't feel bad about work. I spent all day today making copies. Again.

Any suggestions on camera use? I played with it the other day and came up with a few nice ones of the pumpkins-on the flikr site. But we fucked up roasting pumpkin seeds. Don't know how, but we did it.

Sending transatlantic thoughts your way. Sorry if they made a few handguns spout off the other night. My bad.

Mac said...

Sherman's Mama--(mystery person?)
That actually sounds like a grand idea, thanks. Like me, though, Lilly prefers to sit and tap her paw to the music.

Fresh--Someday: you, me and The Ho!
Yeah, thanks for the Ultra-Violence, you violent Scotish Yob.
As for the camera, I do a lot of experiementing/deleting. Good luck.