don't read this. really.

i don't know how you people do it. i've drank half a bottle of liquor, quite a bit for me, and i don't feel anywhere near better. i feel worse, actually, much worse. in spite of my intoxication, i feel naked, i have absolutely no illusions. love is a lie, life is a lie, truth is a lie, all of it. there's really nothing, nothing at all. nothing at all. god, how awful. i have no idea why i am here typing about it, it feels fucking indescribably lonely. just terrible, especially as i don't really have a real relationship with 9/10ths of the people who read this shit. i want to make it private, my blog that is, but i just can't bring myself to do such a thing. it goes against my principles.

i mean, as per usual, i really shouldn't complain. for everything that's raped my soul, i have a friend or a token of affection that the situation enabled to rise to the occasion or bestow upon me. i know grammatically that sentence makes no sense, but you know what i mean. how can i be on the point of vomiting up my soul and yet still feel so sober? everyone else i know is asleep. everyone else is happy. of course it looks like that on the outside but i know full well that the inside is much, much different.

the problem of the other. what do you do when someone takes the power they have over you and pretty much fucks you with it (and i don't mean in the good way)? i know i am supposed to remain quiet, i know i am supposed to die quietly, i know i am supposed to fade away without a peep, with a dying fall, yet i protest. i will take the risk of drunk dialing just to spread the truth. as i said on my drunk dial, "the truth is the truth, and you obviously don't understand that." true. very true. or as i always used to say in french class, vraiment vrai. i will not keep silent about these embarrassing things, situations, fears, hopes. whatever. i don't understand. i don't understand. unfortunately the act of not understanding does not lead to understanding; at any rate, it illustrates, much as alan bass would say, that there is no relationship between the word "cat" and a four-legged domestic animal. things that seem to follow one another are not necessarily related at all, as much as they may seem to be or as much as we may like them to be.

i went to a private party tonight and had hors-d'oeuvres for dinner. hors-d'oeuvres and beer and vodka. a well-balanced meal, featuring both the brewed and distilled variety of alcohol. and i inhaled a lot of paint - i mean, not recreationally, but because i was helping friend and friend with a fashion shoot planned for sunday and they were painting shit. i, because i was steadily getting drunk because of events that befell me, was the supervisor. this means that i shouted a lot of inspirational slogans and sighed heavily and cried into the couch. i guess it is true that sadness shows you who your true friends are; it also shows you who the dumb fucks in your life are. unfortunately, i'm more hung up on the dumb fucks than the friends at this point.

how shameful. how despicable. how juvenile.

am i talking about him or myself? good question.

good fucking question.

i know i will wake up tomorrow and regret posting this. i know i will wake up tomorrow and be like, "why the hell did you write all of that dumb shit and put it out in public for other people to read, to know?"

well, i put it out there because it is the truth. and the truth is the fucking truth, no arguing with that. even i, a drunken, love-sick fool can see that and immediately recognize it.

i am so over life. how frightening. no, don't worry, i wont do anything rash. but i wonder what i will come up with to go on. my graffiti - yes, it helps. but so little. no one believes in altruism anymore, what's the goddamned point?

a week or so ago there was an article that swept nyc about a hospital in brooklyn that allowed an ambulatory patient to die in the waiting room, ignored by hospital staff and security guards. on the website where i read about such a thing, tens of people had posted comments about the article. these comments expressed rage, disgust, anger, sympathy - all normal human responses to the human tragedy (dare i say truth?) of dying alone, forsaken, unsupervised. (and there was a video posted of security cameras who captured the whole ordeal. i couldn't bring myself to watch it. the reality of such footage is simply too staggering for my mind to comprehend. absolutely terrifying. how can one watch this sort of thing? oddly enough, in my mind, it taints one to view it thus, makes one slightly complicit in the ordeal at hand.) at any rate, i scrolled through these comments and as much as i related to each and everyone of them, i became disgusted. as they went on, more and more people began to elaborate on the current state of the world, describing it's miserableness, it's hopelessness, it's hell-in-a-handbasketness. i swear to god, i was seemingly the only person who read that fucking article and was like, i want to volunteer, i want to be a candy striper there. i won't let another person die alone, i swear it. i will, in my small way, do what i can to make sure no one else will suffer like this. (i once, in high school, sat on my front porch for an hour with a wounded mouse because i couldn't stand the idea of it dying alone.) why will no one else think like this, respond like this?

boys' hearts are fickle, i said to him, on his chest, his smooth, hairless chest. beautiful tattoos, beautiful face. that's why i say it, i said, because boys' hearts' are fickle. he laughed, can you believe it - he laughed. and now we come to this. now we come to this.

hearts are fickle.
hearts are fickle.

but not mine. i remain steadfast. i can do naught else.