Monday 11:37 PM
Death of a Wanted Man
The last friend in the world came to make amends with me and I turned him away. I gave him nothing; he asked for something small, and I held steadfast in denial. You can not have my shirt, I said, it is my shirt, my new shirt. He begged for my shirt. I insulted him. He insulted my weakness. I am weak because I am wounded and I exposed to him my wounds. I am no longer fucking around with this shit. I am tired to hell all at once I feel serious, why I am feeling so serious I do not know, I am hardly able to cope with it. Zero tolerance. Heads will roll in diametric opposition of my path. I am so on the edge I concealed carry again and don’t even own a proper holster for the damn thing. I see a peaceful crowd of people praying in a circle and I imagine the serenity in pulling the pin from my teeth and tossing a simple grenade into the center, the absolute terrible carnage – these are the worst of thoughts, these are watch-list thoughts, and they are not the stuff of an honest man. Suicide is barely enough. I will never commit suicide. I am too weak – I will rot. I am already rotting. See my shriveled scars, my atrophied legs. I shall walk with a cane soon enough and for all perpetuity. This relapse into peace will surely not last longer. I am no longer fucking around because the world is not fucking around with me. I have seen the things those men have seen and felt the urge to be pushed off the edge of the world – Lawrence, Alexander – the chilly morning wind on the back of your neck on the side of a wide open highway – mounted at the edge of the desert, in a forest, on the plains; time stops for no man, not them, not me, I am gone – just like that, you won’t see me – gone for all eternity.
The Fucking Bullshit Nonsense of Continental Philosophy
I was faced with a problem of a cruel and bureaucratic nature and in a moment of frustration I went to see my parents, to lay in the guest room and sort out my panic. The old man has a bottle of pills and I needed one. I laid in the guest bed and my head started hurting, and I began feeling even more hopeless. Then my parents came home and made it all worse. I sucked in a breath and curtly explained my dilemma. My father, of course, had no advice, because there was no advice to give, nor any solution he could conceive of that I couldn’t. But he tried to give some advisory vagaries, and they just hurt my head, and I dismissed him. I suddenly didn’t want any of his nasty pills, I felt angry at his uselessness. His closest friend and several cousins had all died in the week before and he seemed to have taken it pretty hard, and I hadn’t seen him much. But something about it made me angry. My dad came back in the room and offered me some pills. I took some. He brought me some water and I thanked him, but I slipped the pills in my pocket for later.
I received an important phone regarding my dilemma and ran like hell to take care of it. My dad had left a wad of cash by my side in the bed but I left it there, I couldn’t touch it. I didn’t say bye, of course, my head was killing me. I got to the office and they gave me a form with a signature and told me to take it to three other offices, and then to the head office, and then to the chairman himself, by closing time that day. I was polite as hell but I wanted to bash the woman’s head in. They closed in twenty minutes. She knew as she spoke to me that I could never get those signatures in twenty minutes. I ran like hell out of the office swearing and ran all the way across town, pounding my feet on the pavement like an animal, exhausted, and I made it to the three offices. I had to ask for directions every time and no one gave me clear ones. I ran more than I’d ran in months and by 5:03 I made it to the chairman himself. He was gone and his office was closed. I had failed. I banged against the locked door and called the chairman a cunt and a faggot. I was furious. I couldn’t breathe and my legs were numb. I saw a couple walking by with their daughter and I wondered if she’d heard me swear. The father gave me a doubtful look and I wanted to pull a gun on him. I ripped up my form and went home, thinking, anything is better than this. Black tar heroin is better than this.
At home, I laid on the couch and I died for three hours. During that time my father sent me a message telling me he wanted to talk to me, that he was alone in the nearby studio and was feeling “pensive.” I suddenly felt very guilty and worried. I was worried about his health and that I needed desperately to connect with him while we were both still alive, and guilty because I had absolutely no intention of going to talk to him. He was a two minute walk away and my dog needed to go walking anyway. But I could not move. I absolutely refused to move. I thought, we will talk later. I will be damned if I’m going to go listen to someone’s deep thoughts for an hour. It was a weird sort of a day, the weather was heavy and bad, and I realized it was strange that my dad had not been at work that day. Why had he not been to work? I thought to myself on the couch that it was likely we would not have an opportunity to talk like this in a very long time if we didn’t this night, and that I could even live on to regret. Should something happen to him now? I would live and regret it. Or if something happened to me – the things that I could have told him! But I laid in place and put on a movie. I watched the movie with the volume off and listened to the staggered heartbeats of me and the dog. It felt rather good to be so decisively defiant, and to tell my father, “not today.” I thought how tragic it was that I loved them, that I loved them so much and so totally depended on them, wanted to explain myself to them, which was totally impossible – I told him I was tired and that I had failed to get those goddamn signatures. He told me it would work it out, and that I had left my money at their house if I wanted to come get it. He told me he was tired, too.