I have always been particularly hard on myself, not just as an individual, criticizing every one of my thoughts and actions, but also as a human being in general. Just like the good early Church Fathers, I curse the human race for shitting, for sweating, for pissing and stinking out in the sun under which I was born: CANCER! When GOD shines most brightly upon us!! June 30th is when mother pooped me out of the wrong hole! Hee! I think my tendency towards depression and moody melancholy has a lot to do with my astrological profile; I am a child of the moon born under the summer sun and if I seem to think too highly of myself it is only because deep inside I want to kill myself. Cooler than Christ and warmer than Satan, somewhere in the middle, trying to transcend it all. I once, a few years ago, got horribly drunk and covered myself with my own feces, just trying to EMBRACE my own human condition, or something (being an artist!), as I listened to Nine Inch Nails (HA!). I woke up the next morning in a hotel bed full of my own shit. Feeling psychotic and dreadfully worried about myself, I hurriedly went to take a shower, gagging, hardly able to bear the smell and the fact that I actually DID this sort of thing. I bathed and went to class. For some reason, outside, just before class, I got into a deep conversation with this cute girl I’d just met. Her and I were standing under a tree talking about Sartre or some such silly thing, because that was the class we were both about to enter. As she left me she held out her hand and said, “Well, nice to meet you”. I shook her hand and mused to myself if she ONLY KNEW what I looked like a mere half hour before and what had been on that hand she just grasped. Hee! I made a special point to stay away from that girl the rest of the semester.
I feel grateful today, for what? That I am sane, no psychoses, not yet. I am in a quagmire now in which I know I must quit drinking; but on the days I don’t drink I have to endure the psychotic, lonely depressing thoughts. I am not going to talk to these dead ghosts of godless children much longer, the genies that live in the bottle. I can’t. I will not survive; for one thing, my money is fading fast. I keep getting drunk and ordering books on-line. I got my Christmas Bonus this week, though, and I want very much to buy this fancy sex doll we have at the porn-store. It has a very realistic, gorgeous face and long, black hair. The problem is that the body looks a lot like a rubber chicken; I hope when I blow it up it will look better. I want to fuck it so bad. Fuck it and pretend it’s Christ incarnate, St George’s dragon; a white whale; Mishima’s Golden Temple; death, or whatever, and when I cum inside this rubber chicken of a doll I will hear Christ’s wails and go get me some shrimp tails.
I’m getting some shrimp tonight. I cannot decide which I like best, morbid masturbation or shrimp. I love me some shrimp, that’s for sure; I even listed it as one of my user interests. I made a big painting of dead people, severed tits and Gothic cathedrals, all surrounded by luscious, shining red and pearly white shrimp. It is the texture of the shrimp which is most enticing. That subtle CRUNCH when you bite into them. I get the blow-up doll half price, employee-discount, you know. The doll will feed my necro phantasies and be a good tool for what I want to accomplish in my morbid masturbation studies. Yes, I said “studies”!! HA! Oh, so you thought this was all some gratuitous endeavor for me to sit on the playground and pull my cock out of my pants and scare the other children because they will not play with me? I have plenty of children who want to play with me. The problem I have is that I do not want to play with them; I want to see them dead. Why? So I can then PLAY with them of course! Play with their naked, dead bodies, man; use their dead assholes for candle-holders, dude. God, I’m such a bad-ass.
I must look like a horrible, homeless bum these days. Like I said, I have to walk home down a stretch of highway carrying my back-pack. People are always stopping, offering me rides, because I’m certain I look like some sort of hobo needing a ride to Kansas or something. The truth is, though, that once I’m on the highway I’m almost home, about a hundred feet or so and this is what I have to keep telling people. There is a McDonald’s within this stretch of highway and yesterday I stopped in there to get me some food. I ordered a Big Mac, two Big n’ Tasties, 10 McNuggets and super-sized fries. I put the food in my back-pack, got out in the parking lot, and realized I had forgotten to get sauce for my nuggets. So I grumble and go back in the store, noticing that this sweet little old man is looking at me. He has this look of tenderness in his eyes; he’s well dressed, I guess; simple buttoned down shirt, slacks, whatever. I go up to the counter to get my nugget sauce, then head back out to the parking lot and suddenly I feel someone’s fucking HAND on my shoulder!!! I look around and realize this old man has fucking TOUCHED me. He has this sad, sweet caring look on his face and he says, “Hey, do you need some food, buddy? You look like you’re having a hard time of things, and, well, we all need some help now and then.”
WHAT?!! Do I really look that bad? I was horribly offended, really. But it was funny because I’m certain this guy didn’t see me order my back-pack full of burgers and fries. He only saw me going up to the counter to get NUGGET SAUCE!! HAHA! He thought I was some broke, hungry bum humbly asking for a free little packet of nugget sauce so I could go under my little bridge to eat it! Hee! Yes, I was offended, but it also kind of funny so I just unzipped my backpack, showed the guy my sack full of food and politely told him I was fine. Then I saw him go into his car, noticed he had one of those Christian fish symbols on his bumper. Heh. Niiiiice. “Do you need some food, buddy?” HA! Fuck you, old man! I got sea monsters to kill! Away from me with your petty offerings! I’d like to be reincarnated as a Chicken McNugget. I’d like to be a Chicken McNugget and sit in some hot chick’s refrigerator for awhile, waiting for that glorious moment when she fucking eats me. Knowing my luck, she'd probably feed me to her dog.
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