Is it that I became lonely or was I always lonely and didn’t realize it? I also wonder if it is that I prefer being lonely but won’t say that out loud because that’s a really emo thing to say….
Am I staying up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job because I am off of my meds or am I off of my meds so I can stay up all night getting in fights going to jail losing my job?
I keep losing at 8-ball pool but i keep playing anyway I’m listening to Tool cause this sunny day was a rainy day I gotta lotta thoughts i wanna say but my demons and angels keep getting in the way that sounded like shit and i just want to quit bullshitting around at this night’s last sip no it’s really not the last sip of the ship that is going down flaming while i do a backflip i just lied again because I can’t do a gymnastic i took lessons one time and i loved that shit but dad thought it not so fantastic he told me i would end my life by breaking my neck a mop he gave me told me to sweep up his deck….i love being punny because i think that its funny and i love to laugh in my belly when things are smelly and putrid and rotting and the whole thing that i call my world is twisting and turning and i know im a girl or a woman i suppose i love to cover my face in panty hose and pretend im a rob ya and rape ya and say that i got ya cause you suck balls and i don’t like you but i want you to love me and think that I’m awesome as gold wait til you see how my life will unfold, so far it’s been bad with some sprinkles of good when Im doing the things they say that i should but when the words in their mouth don’t match the words in their motions it causes my heart to feel some emotion and the emotion is anger cause that’s the one i’m best at I can cuss you up one side then this side and that and sound like my old favorite doctor who is doctor suess many times in my life dr suess has been my muse especially right now tool still playing in my ear and all that I hear is vicarious so near but I’m not queer cause you are.
I don’t care. I don’t care…i don’t care
i don’t care….no, bruh, i really don’t fucking care, I don’t give a fuck, fuck off, lol, fuck you, i dont care, it doesnt matter, i’m fine, i’m a’ight, fuck me, fuck yourself,, fml, fml, i want to die, i wish i would die, i hate you, fuck you, eat shit and die, i love you so fucking much, why didn’t you come?, why don’t you love me? what the fuck did I do to you? You’re a fucking sociopath I hate my life fuck i don’t care that didn’t hurt
go fuck yourself
leave me alone
It is my overwhelming desire always…the one that sits at the bottom of my gut…to write. Writing intimidates me, though and I won’t do it. I am not easily intimidated, either, I must say.
Last night my 19-year old daughter and I were jumped by several black women and a couple black dudes at my home. The attacks came from the neighbors across the street.
I live in a predominantly black neighborhood. I mean, it’s slightly mixed with some white, but mostly the whites are old folks who (I ASSume) lived here before the black folks moved into the neighborhood.
I really have never been racist. Not even when the racist cards were stacked against me.
I was raised in South Louisiana. I went all the way through school living in one of the most notoriously racist parishes. I do believe Livingston Parish is, at least, one of the homes of the KKK.
Where I’m from, it’s completely normal when white folks are around other white folks to hear, more than occasionally, the word nigger in everyday conversation. Maybe not as much with people like teachers, and such, but I shit you not, a few years ago I walked into the refreshment room at one of the biggest churches in my hometown and one guy was at the coffee pot telling another guy a nigger joke and not even telling him in a hushed voice. I immediately turned around and walked out of that room, sans refreshment. It really bummed me out. I quit going entirely to that church not too long after that, not so much for the racist joke I heard, but for their Armenian theology and infiltration of hypocrites. Blah. That’s so boring.
At the risk of being called by some of my hometown people, a nigger lover, I will re-iterate that for some reason that existed in me before I was me, there was born a color-blindness in me that defied all logic, given my upbringing. I will give credit where it’s due and say that my step-mother completely forbade the use of the word “nigger” by either myself or my little sister. She did not say it, herself, nor did her parents. My dad said “nigger” in at least half of every sentence I ever heard that man utter, until I quit talking to both he and step-mom in 2011. I’m sure he still says it, though.
He hates black folks.
I remember in about 1983, I went for an outing to the mall with my step-mom. She must have either been feeling particularly loving toward me, or was trying to get me into trouble, but she bought me a tan-colored t-shirt with Michael Jackson silk-screened on it. It was that picture where MJ is laying on his side with his jerry curl and white sports jacket. I was so excited about that shirt!!! We got home and I put it on to show my dad. I was 7 and oblivious, really, and was really confused when my dad became super-angry at me and started screaming at me in his scary mean dad way. He made me take the shirt off and I was told he burned it. That’s all I remember about that.
The second time I was raped, it was by a black guy. I never told anyone, though. I talk about it now but not telling it like it’s a big deal, but more like just saying it because it’s part of my story. I never told anyone about the first time I was raped and how a white guy did it, either. I don’t really see how color is an issue, except if I wanna garner sympathy from whites saying that a black dude raped me, but since I didn’t tell anyone I wasn’t getting sympathy and sympathy is the fucking last thing I want, anyway.
(Praise, Accolades and Book Deals Are Fine)
I thought the sentence I just wrote was funny because the first sentence of this train wreck was that I was unable to write.
Maybe I was using reverse psychology on myself. I can’t stand to be unable to do a thing as long as the thing I am doing is within reason.
After last night, I feel like I’m a racist now and it feels weird. It’s an idea that is completely bipolar to me now. Pardon the pun that’s not really a pun because I’m not really bipolar. I guess I’m getting jaded. It really does get hard, especially when I feel pretty strong racism from many members of the black community with whom paths cross with mine, here lately.
I love Kanye West.
i don’t know why I always feel
when the truth comes out and I must reveal
my innermost feelings I keep concealed
I must make them rhyme to seal the deal
Maybe it is that it’s easiest to say
the hardest words in a poetic way
Onomatopeia turns black and white to grey
and maybe it’ll make you stay around to play
and if you did, I’d push you away
My subconscience mind is who I obey.
I feel my liver talking to me tonight…”Athena, I can’t do this much longer.”
I felt that vibe from my liver area earlier tonight. I’ve actually been feeling it for a few months but I’d rather ignore it and pretend that’s not real.
I’m really good at pretending shit’s not real. I have been exceptionally good at denying Hepatitus C for the past 15 years, so you’ll understand my relief at the knowledge of the newfound cure to hep c. I don’t have to ignore it, anymore, because there’s a cure.
Seriously, when I was like 23, I ended up at Charity Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana. I don’t even remember what sent me there. I was probably just really tired and sick from shooting dirt. I was homeless at 23, because I had been technically ‘homeless’ since I was 21. My parents, my dad and my step-mom, who raised me, had “washed their hands” of me, and my real mom was as fucked up as I was, at that time.
My real mom drank herself to death and I guess the apple don’t fall that far from the tree. Another way to say it might be: maybe I am that bad of a soul that God wanted me to not only watch my mom drink herself to death, but wanted, also, for me to drink myself to death, too, while my five children watched.
So, at Charity Hospital, I remember waiting in a 14-hour line, the next thing I remember is being in a small examination room with a short, Indian doctor, who told me: “YOU MUST NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER DRINK ANOTHER BEER. NO ALCOHOL. YOU MUST NEVER DRINK AGAIN.”
I was feeling so bad that I’m sure I was like, “oh yeah, I’ll never do that again”, halfway meaning it.
I suppose I ended up drunk as soon as I could after being released from the hospital and getting me a bag of powder, then shooting it, and then becoming so paranoid that unless I had a xanbar, the only way for me to come back down was to get drunk.
The only reason I ever started drinking in my early 20’s was to kill the paranoid schizophrenia the cocaine induced. I don’t use the term, ‘paranoid schizophrenia’, lightly, because when I shot dope, that was exactly my diagnosis. Good thing coke made me skinny, or it would’ve been really hard to position myself in the middle of the side-by-side washer and dryer at that crack house that one time I did that for 4 hours. My God, the auditory hallucinations alone were as real as, well, the real sound of police kicking in the door and asking for me by my name.
So the part of my abdomen that lies directly beneath the right side of my rib cage is decidedly tender and somewhat achy. I have also been experiencing some other symptoms that I care not to relate. This sick feeling isn’t really freaking me out, but I think it’s causing the depressive state of mind that I have been ignoring, yet experiencing the last couple weeks….perhaps months.
In my normally depressed mood, I sleep til about 11:30 a.m. or 12:00, after having gone to bed no earlier than 3 a.m. Here, lately, I am not waking until 12:15 p.m and then continue to sleep until 1:30 or 2:00 p.m., when I went to bed by 9 p.m. the previous night. I really don’t want to get up at 2 but I know my dog probably has to pee, so I get myself up to let him out. And…my God, when I open that door and the sun hits me, I feel like the undead. I hate it and wonder why it is that I don’t want to get up anymore. I love the sun and there is nothing going on here, at home, that should make me not want to arise. As far as the rest of my life/complaints go, things are fucking great. In fact, things are better than they have been in a long time.
I really don’t have any complaints…except that one about my firstborn son and his mean and angry father.
So now I am at the metaphorical “CROSSROADS”.
Do I want to continue to drink, knowing that my liver light is blinking and bad kidneys run in the family?
Or do I want to just keep on keeping on, refusing to be a quitter, until I meet the reaper again, without him taunting me?
I hate decisions.
I have so much I could write about but no laptop to type, and I am sticking to that excuse.
My mood is far beyond depressed, which always means I need to get it out of me in some sort of prose.
Everything is coming apart again.
The ground never remains level beneath my feet. However, I really do try (at least in my head before I go to bed) to be the ” forever optimist”. And the more unstable things become, the more epiphanies of God I am granted witness.
So that’s pretty cool.
It’s unfortunate that I forget most of them.
they never did
think I’m lying?
Go off the grid
Spend a week or two
then you will find
your friends are few
and lagging behind
they ain’t really slow
they just want you to know
and suck my purple cock in SLOW MO