the result of writing when there’s really nothing to say…(not a story just BS)

by 4 degrees

Posted to Stories on 2004-03-15 05:13:00

waking up again as a cloud of toxic thought settles, readying myself to tell on myself, that there isn’t an original bone in my frayed body. in my house. shit my poor bird only whistles beethoven and moby and repeats a few choice phrases that i repeated to it…he lacks originality also. it has infested my house, my life. rising from my bed at whatever time it happens to be on this occasion (it’s always some different time) and smearing aluminum zirconium tetrachlorohydrex under each arm so i don’t stink too badly, if anyone were to be close enough to smell me. rubbing zinc citrate trihydrate on my yellowing teeth and tongue to counter-act the huge amount of cigarettes and coffee consumed, then rinsing with green shit that’s forty proof. not for anyone else’s benifit, but so my own poor nose dosen’t have to cope with the smell of dogshit lingering right below it. and so i make your breakfast so you can work hard with a full stomach and bid you a farewell of some sort, and go to check my empty email inbox. listening to the shit they’re playing on the radio trying to market to people of whatever age catagory, probably not mine or else it would have more effect, wishing that they could just play filter all day with maybe some jane’s addiction to spice things up. i give up and replay the cd that has been replayed over and over again for the past three weeks. i’d like to think myself a creature of habit but it’s more like monotony. redundance. so kmfdm wakes me better, and i go check the mail outside, and wonder shall i renew my subscription to blender? why the hell am i getting blender. maybe it’s for that one tiny naked picture of moby they keep re printing. gee, my details subscription is up…should i renew? well at least i get something out of that one. maxim? why the fuck am i getting maxim? am i trying to fool the mail carrier or what, i wonder. i bring in the new and stack them with the old, the never to be read again, the we-need-to-be-recycled pile…and then sit down to make an attempt at coming up with something original. ha! can’t do it can’t do it can’t do it. i flip through my trusty thesaurus and pick some choice words that even i know not the meaning of, unless i see them there with their similes. i put them together like a puzzle and pretend it’s poetry. i start to get angry, thinking of how sick i am to be your bitch, how i await your fuckin’ beccond call for my chance to be near you or get some approval. the more i think the more i think the closer i get to resorting to violence. i think of you telling me how you happened to be doing work for a psych prof and after you share some of my choice defects with her she tells you, it’s nearly a rule, that those of artistic or creative inclination are suffering from mental illness. well i guess i could get off on an insanity plea if worse comes to worse. ha! i wish. so i surf some porn to distract me from me and find it quite unsatisfying, as usual these lame days, and google morrissey and maynard james keenan and nick hexum. they’re always better than porn. i stroke myself as i look at the provocative pixels and lose all my troubles in a five-minute fantasy. now i can breath. now, maybe, i can interact with a willing participant, maybe, say, answer the phone when it rings. yeah, that’s a start. i sit back and sigh and drink some more coffee, and think to myself how tomorrow will be different, i swear.