by dschapman

My friend suckered me into helping him for an hour, to help get him to work on time because he is relatively helpless. I hate his work and I am indignant for having to help him. I have not been a particularly good friend in years because I have not felt particularly inclined to, although I have put up with a lot even so, and been something of a pillar, growing old. I dream up something to talk about but he isn’t listening, he is telling me all about how drunk he’s been getting. He’s all worked up and feeling proud.

He tells me about all the crazy sex he’s been having, with all of these beautiful women. I tell him his room is a pig-sty. He tells me he’s been having to pick between them, even ignoring them the next day and everything, playing his cards. I tell him, good. I have never felt more ascetic than I did in that moment. I also felt sick. I played a song for him, Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog, in his dedication, to provide an outlet for my seeded contempt. I don’t think he was listening, he kept talking about women. Asking me about my luck. My luck. Monkish, that’s my luck. Monkish and just on the cusp of misery. But I have to be certain of myself, as all people do in this world, for no one will be certain for me. I can justify anything, I just have to do so. I just have to believe it myself. I tell him he knows how it goes.

What a guy. I feel 100 years older than him, I feel like I’m 10. I’m all confused about everything. Not sure who to trust these days. I don’t even masturbate anymore, I’m paralyzed by the longing numbness of love. I feel wonderful passions of love for a woman I know, I try to get hold of her from time to time and tell her I love her, but I am deeply embarrassed, I am unsure of her real thoughts, and I can not bring myself to do so. It is amazing how quickly we grow old. Right before our eyes, time passes, it is too late now, we’ve missed our chance. She lives far away now, anyway, and I am otherwise totally creepy about these things. It is downright inappropriate to fall in love like this. Not only that, but I find I am at the height of my virtue when I am totally disinterested, when I do not believe in love, and that I am, at least, one-eyed, amongst blinded men. But that is a joke that I play myself, because I am very interested, and I am in a real fit of love.

I have seen the things my friend has done to sleep with his women. I have heard the way he talks to them, the things he has to listen to. I just can not do it, not because I am proud or in any qualitative sense better, not that I have anything better to do, because I don’t, and I’m not, but I simply can’t do it. It doesn’t seem right to me. I just have to be honest. I am honest, now, I try to be a mature man. Whatever that means. Years now, it has been years – a long, long summer. But it barely even bothers me. But it bothers me. But I could have slept with women, yes – I could have had any number of them. Just not the ones that I long for. And I even tried, once or twice, and of course I failed; but so it goes, self-deprivation and abstinence, fasting along the banks of the river, cleaning our sheets once a week and making the bed every morning. God is good, God is everything. I am pleased with myself for having at least come into contact with God in this otherwise dreary, unproductive time, for God is an honest and perfect conclusion. True belief is good and honest, honesty is Godliness. With a limp I walk into the sweet light of God.