My Failed Attempt to Help Others

When I started this page [refering to my facebook page "Our Dystopia"] my intent was to begin a dialogue between fellow artists who suffer from mental illness. I figured that if I put myself out there and bared to the facebook community that I suffer from borderline personality disorder and have been diagnosed as having many other mental problems for the whole of my adult life that people would step forward and share their own stories. The goal was to help others by sharing for I know, as well as I recognize my shadow, that feeling like you are alone in your abstraction is one of the most horrifying facts of being a person with psychiatric problems. I've had this page for some time now, and, well, it's a valley. An empty fucking valley where my own voice echoes back at me as the only sound. Hell, I tried.

A year ago I quit drinking. I figured that without the chains of my brutal alcohol addiction I would be able to finally succeed. I knew that if I kicked that crutch out from under me that all of the loose pieces of my life would fall into place and all would be fine. Well, I tried.

For the past year, I have managed to keep a faint smile on my face. I have tried everything I could think of in order to make a living as a photographer, and every time that failed I looked for other means of income while never losing stride in my pursuit of a working photographer's life. Interview after interview, no's in so many forms, rejection after rejection, and I still kept trying. Even though I did not have a job or any photo assignment, I still went out to the streets to work on my craft nearly every night. The nights I missed were usually due to my camera being pawned in order to pay bills. I would struggle to buy it back just to lose it again and again. As Sisyphus cloned, I tried.

This past year I dealt with the death of my ex which many people blamed on me, but I knew all the facts that no one knew; I knew my innocence. Shortly after that, my father passed away two thousand miles from me. I watched as all the people who were not there by his side during those years when he was loud, full of life and without a hint of death's shadow upon him, now crowded his bed with wishes of a peaceful departure and vows to do whatever they could to make him comfortable. I, though, could do nothing for him. All I could do was to miss him and mourn him prematurely in my home that is no home and with a mind and heart torn, deluded and aching. There was nothing to try for, but I still had my dreams.

I know that one way or another I will get what I want. The timing may not be perfect but for some reason that eludes me, I can not quit. I can not give in to the brightly lit words: " we will break you" glowing a thousand feet high. Like the fool I am, I try.

It may never show, but my heart pumps optimism. I don't want to think about what hardships await me, but I know that somehow I will overcome. I feel alone and I hate that, but some things just are and all I can do is try to keep the few friends I have; try to remind them that my delusions, my sorrow, my pain, and my agony are my demons. I can reassure them that I am not the way I am because of anyone or anything, any doing or not, and that I am sorry for being half a person; I will try to be better.

The Trouble

Maybe I sound cliche when I say that no one understands me, but that is and has been the way I have felt since I remember feeling for the first time. Now, what people don't understand is certainly not a singular idea, feeling, dream, sensation, or gesture. There are numerous things people do not understand about me. Here I will address one, but I can not guarantee that the one will not multiply. I never really know where I am going when I start to write, but I will try to be specific and stick to this problem of me and photography.
I am a good photographer in all senses of the term, but I only really care about being a good artist who uses photography as his tool. At this, I think I am good. For who is to say what makes an artist good, but that is not the point. Being good is not important. Being a photographer is important. Taking photos as a job is what I have to do with my life. If I don't do that then no one will ever know what I am capable of. I need to take photographs full time. This has to happen for me to feel alive.
I mention my mental illness more than I should. This fact most likely has a negative effect. People think that I am trying to get attention, or that I am making excuses (for what? I don't know). People only make assumptions about why I am so forward about having borderline personality disorder. I know this because no one has ever asked me why. No one has even brought it up, and I have never been asked a single question from anyone about this. It is in my bio on my website. I have written about it dozens of time on Facebook and even have a page,"Our Dystopia", dedicated to it. My brother thinks I am making it up yet still he has never said what it is that I am making up just that I am "not that bad", or "just lazy" and sometimes "just like dad". My needing to be a photographer fits into this. People misunderstand why. They think that it is simply a dream of mine; that I am no different from a child who wants to be a professional baseball player or an astronaut. They say that I should keep trying but that I have to have a real job. I'm sure they hear "world famous super rich photographer" when I say, photographer. What I mean is that I need to be me taking photos of subjects the way I like to take photos, and with these photos, I would like to have enough money to live on so I don't have to work a "real job"which only heightens my fear, pain, and delusion which keeps me from feeling whole, happy, or even human. There have been months where I have earned more than enough money to live on by taking photos. In fact, I once had a job which paid me $1000 a week to take photos. That is more than enough to live on, but people equate that job with luck and me leaving that job with stupidity. I believe the latter to be true slightly, but really it was my illness which made me quit that job. I did not think I could do it. You see, I have been programmed to expect failure. When something goes my way the first thing I do is try to sabatoge it. I am not supposed to win at anything. That is what my mind tells me. I am getting off the point.
I am a photographer. The world has only seen half of what I have done. Only two of the projects I shot on film have made it to the digital age. The rest sit in a box waiting for me to be able to afford their reanimation. I am getting close. This is going to happen soon. Now, there is one more obstacle. People have to understand that I can take my style of photography and use it for common purposes. It does not have to be photos of strangers on the street, the downtrodden, the disillusioned, or the odd. I can take photos of people's children in this fashion and they will love it. The same goes for their pets, spouses, parents, friends, co-workers, and on and on. I can shoot commercial work in the same style and people will love it, and the same goes for weddings and other events. Just about any type of photography that involves living things can be photographed by me and done my way without compromising my integrity or the quality of the work. The trick is that people need to see to believe , and that is a bit of a catch-22; I have to do the work to get the work but I can't get the work to do the work because I have never done the work. What is the solution? I have to do the work for free first. This doesn't seem like a problem. People love free stuff, right? The way I take photos is very intimate. I am following you around with a camera taking photos of you doing just about everything you do. Or I am doing this to your kid, your pet, and your wife. It is tough. It will be hard to accomplish all of this while trying to hold down a "real job" so I can pay my rent, eat and all that necessary shit. It's going to take a long time, and I am already starting to look ridiculous. I am 37. I am the best photographer you have never heard of who makes ten dollars an hour answering phones and used to be a chef, too. That is another thing that I am not just good at, but better than some of the best, and it was the simple fact that I did things too different from everyone else. No one could work for me. Either they were way underskilled and could not do what I needed them to do, or they were quite skilled but in traditional techniques; they hated me because I could do the job they went to school for and toiled at for many years so much better than they could and in a way that was completely my own. Of course, since my ways were not the old standard they must be wrong. My ways work, and they are no secret. Those chefs who could not work for me years ago have no doubt adopted the way I was doing things by now being that they have become the new standard in fine dining. Again, off the topic.
I need a break of some kind. I need help, or I need to learn patience. If I don't achieve my goal it will be the end of my world. Maybe, that sounds dramatic but it is true. My self-doubt, my fear, the sinking heart feeling that is constant from the moment I open my eyes in the morning to when I shut them at night only subsides when I am taking photos. Every other moment is Hell. It is agony. Now, I have been in my Hell for a long time, so I am a bit callused from the flames. The pain is dull most of the time, but there is no happiness. This is no joke, photography is the only medicine that works. It is only a theory of mine that if photography is my job then this constant misery will vanish, but people have faith in a lot less and I have to believe this.
I only put these words down in hopes that you will better understand me, and realize that I am not fighting for a child's dream, I am fighting for a man's life.

A Mix of Things: Excerpts from a novel and random thoughts

1971

He will forevermore view this year as a turning point. Maybe "The Turning Point" of their life, or lives, together. It was the second life. September 23 1971 Astoria Queens. A hot day. Late afternoon. He stopped walking to look at his finger. It was still bleeding. He needed another bandage so he stopped at Paul's Place--a locals bar. He was not a local. The door was heavy and as he entered the sunlight slowly died. His eyes could make out an empty stool, and that was about it. From the darkness chirped a sweet voice. Can I get you something? Beer?

No, um, not yet. A bandage.

He held up his finger for her to see.

Oh shit, cut yourself?

She disappeared to look for a bandage and reappeared in seconds like a phantom. 

This should do.

Thanks.

So, a drink?

He looked around. Dark and larger than it appeared from outside. A railroad bar—bar and stools on one side a couple of tables on the other. Only a few older men at the opposite end of the bar watching TV. Whispering. He assumed about him. He was right. 

Yeah, tonic water.

Gin?

No, just tonic water.

You sure?

I don’t drink. 

When he said this it was like a stranger was speaking through him. He drank. He was always drunk. In fact, he wasn’t sure. 

Me either. 

She handed him the cold glass. So cold that it felt as if it was burning his hand. He took a sip. An instant headache. 

My name is…

She reached out to shake his hand. Her fingers painted purple.

Ma…

Fuck.

He grabbed his head.

Sorry, I just got the worst headache. I don’t think I know where I am, and fuck, my name? It’s, shit, I don’t know? What the hell is going…

You okay? You look…

Black. It just went black. Now it was bright white. A hospital. Still no idea where, or who. She was there, sitting next to him and reading a magazine. 

You’re awake.

He was. He knew his name. He knew exactly where he was. He knew her. He reached out for her hand—warm and soft. He knew it was true and he loved her more now than the last time, and he never thought that would be possible.

She had no idea who he was.

0ct 14 2015 or 1928

He is a wreck. Just horrible. Bad. Mean. Out of control. Helpless, and there seems to be nothing he can do about it. His job is a pointless set of movements that mean nothing. A meager check at the end of the week. While working he feels like running, burning the place to the ground, spitting in the food, farting in the omelets, and stabbing his coworkers. He does like walking home from work. She waits for him there. She is rarely happy to see him, but his heart always skips a beat or too when he opens the door to discover her beauty—every time as if it is the first. There are few moments like that in his life. Not a lot of happiness. Never has been. He is sick. His brain doesn’t like happy thoughts. It is broken. 

She, like so many others, views his illness as weakness. A thing that he can simply stop doing. Like biting ones finger nails or chronic masturbation, or the dangerous combination of biting one's fingers nails while chronically masturbating. It is not simple. His brain, the organ that rules them all, is faulty. He tries the usual stuff. He goes to a psychiatrist, takes his pills, reads everything he can on the subject. He is still depressed, has erratic behavior,is paranoid, can be delusional at times, and has no control over his quickly changing emotional reactions. He is sad when everything is great at times. Has all the energy and a positive attitude when all is falling apart around him sometimes. No matter what, he thinks she is up to something, plotting against him. And worst of all he has no real concept of who he is, or what he is supposed to be doing. The confusion of living with this is hard enough, but having the woman he loves think that he can control it if he wants to breaks his heart(an organ that works just dandy). She thinks that it is all his fault and that he should just act normal—just quit being sad. This is like telling someone who is blind that they just don’t want to see. It is not just her. Everyone views him this way. He gets sick of the “oh, everyone gets sad you have to snap out of it”, and “l get depressed sometimes too you’ll get over it” bullshit. He won’t “get over it” or “snap out of it”. “It” does not work that way. “It” does not take breaks. “It” will not slow down. “It” can not be killed if the host is living, and he—the host—isn’t going anywhere. Unfortunately, that is the way most people kill “it”. Kill the body and the head will follow. 

So, if he is not willing to destroy his body to spite his brain, what does he do? Well, it is 87 years from his time. Ironically experiencing a great depression during the Great Depression. At least he will blend in, and for some reason he can’t remember(time travel has this effect sometimes)girlfriendish thing is nowhere to be seen. He can’t feel her presence or her lovely skin, can’t smell her hair, or taste her lips. All he feels is a pit. An emptiness. There is a fog. A voice. “Just leave”, it whispers, “go”, crying out and, “don’t come back.” His eyes open. He is on cold wet concrete. An alley. Fire escapes. Grey sky and visible breath. Car horns. Echo’s of a crowd. A headache. A sore neck. Uncontrollable sobs. Gasping for air. Struggling to stand. Girlfriendish thing’s name on his tongue, in his heart, and shooting out his finger tips in bolts of electricity. And he explodes. A fine mist. Gone.

Tooth-Ache

He was glad to be home. Back in his body. A face he could recognize in the mirror. The jar of mango salsa, half eaten, resting at the far end of the fridge, drenched with goo, and from a time no one can remember. He missed the piles of dirty laundry girlfriendish thing left in every room, and even outside. Sometimes he wondered if anything occupied the space of her 3 dressers and two walk in closets. He kept his close in a makeshift wardrobe fashioned out of cardboard boxes and duct tape, and was stored in the "guest room". Not really for guests, but for stuff she has yet to unpack over the three years they have rented the house. You know, the "but I use that!" stuff of arguments. He loved it all. Really, it was the bed and her. That combination and any atmosphere, any environment, would be more than livable. 

So, I said he was home. Not exactly home. Girlfriendish thing was not herself, exactly. And even though the time and place was dead on, it wasn't. Oh, and it changed about every ten minutes. As did girlfriendish's mood swings. What caused this shift, this "rift in time and space". This continuum conundrum? Well, he told me, while stomping his feet and pulling at his hair--"She Had A Fucking Tooth Ache!!, and there was nothing I could do about it! Nothing anyone or thing could do, and it nearly tore the Everything apart!"

2075

We don’t  show up in the future much, but then again what is the future when you are not exactly sure what the present is, really is. It is only what I think it is, and I have established that what I think is shit. So fuck, we don’t show up after 2015 much. That’s what I meant. It is not that different. People dress the same basically, music still sucks, politicians are still assholes, there is plenty of racism, classism and all that shit. Cell phones are still the norm. Farting in public is still frowned upon, as is beating children and ordering a martini with breakfast. I only do, at the most, two of those every day. Life is  boring here. 

We live in a newer house in a white upper middle class totally predictable useless as toes on a coffee mug skid mark in your panties green lawn 2.5 children sedan coupons at the supermarket three meal a day talk radio limp dick dad pre-menopause fake orgasm family dog swing set movie night game night date night babysitter wet dreams bike ride dinner at 5 we aren’t racists but football Sunday Santa Claus is coming tooth fairy book club insurance camping trip you wouldn’t believe the day I had kind of neighborhood. So, we fucked a lot and started smoking heroin again. We were the happiest couple on the block even though girlfriendish thing still did not consider us a couple, for example:

Month two in 2075 and finally we meet a neighbor. Frank. Maybe Jim. Who cares. I was on the porch. I believe it was a weekday. JimFrank pulls into his driveway and waves, stops, and looks at me. He begins to walk towards me. God damn it. Speaking to this man from the future has been what I have been trying to avoid. My front door opens beside me and out walks Girlfriendish thing, pats me on the head, smiles and sits next to me. JimFrank stops at the porch stairs.

Hi, I’m your neighbor Alex. 

He extends his hand. I shake it. He is still JimFrank to me.

Nice to meet you, Alex.

Yeah, the wife and I, well, we just wanted to see if you two wanted to come by some time for drink or something. We usually have a couple of people over on Sundays around five. Be a good chance for you, what um, newly weds? to meet the rest of the neighbors. 

She’s not my wife.

Oh, well um…

We are engaged. 

Oh, then, uh, that’s wonderful you set a date yet or …

Not what you think Ji…Alex. We are engaged to start dating.

Alex looks confused and girlfriendish thing sighs and whispers an “oh fuck” under her breath.

You see, in a year or so we hope to maybe go out to dinner or maybe go catch a movie. Try to get to know one and other. Right now she isn’t even my girlfriend. I know what you are thinking and yes, we live in the same house, we sleep in the same bed, we have sex, we spend most of our time together, and we are in love each other. She is not my girlfriend though. Don’t make that mistake. Trust me.

Alright, I won’t. So, Sunday if you want. Yep. Good day.

By Alex. Nice to meet you.

Alex waves heading towards his cookie cutter.

You’re a fucking dick.

Me? Just telling the guy the truth.

Just go along with it? Now they think we’re a bunch of freaks.

Maybe you should start to rethink what you call us.

Why. Why do I have to be your fucking girlfriend? I told you I love you. I don’t love anyone else.

Just admit it to others then. I counted the other day. We’ve been together for 70 years, and still you can’t bare for people to know we are together. It’s frustrating. It makes me doubt your commitment.

Asshole, it’s been 70 years. Don’t you think that I would have left you by now? 

You cheat on me all the time?

And, I always come back to you!

I hate this place.

Me to.

Wanna get high.

Yeah. Could we also…

Yes, but leave the tv off.

Sure.

She kisses my forehead and walks inside. I follow. 

2015 

Night time and they lay in bed under warming amber light. He awoke to step outside. The night was a cold one. His cigarette felt clean and right as the smoke billowed a blue haze upward giving atmosphere to his mood and mood to the atmosphere. 

Every night we do this(speaking to his cat). She falls asleep in my arms and I’ve got to slither my way from her warm grip to sit out here and smoke with you.

Mrr row row mrr.

This cold helps. It makes me wake up, you know(he pats the cats head and draws from his cigarette)it reminds me that this is not a dream. This is not a hallucination. It’s real. She loves me. Every day she knows that she could have anyone and she chooses me. She. Her. I could not imagine this. A woman that amazing, smart, funny, talented, beautiful, but you could say that about a lot of people. She just has it all in a way that is unique to her. She is not smart like a scholar. She can just see inside you and know what you know in a way that blows you away but isn’t pretensions. Its delicately complex, or something. The same with her humor and talent; she doesn’t have to make you laugh you just know she could. Or, she can pick up an instrument and start playing, but you are not shocked. It makes sense. Everything she does makes sense. You may not understand what she is doing or why but you remain calm because she is doing “it”  and you trust her. 

Ha. No, you dumb fuck. YOU trust her. Rephrase that shit, “I remain calm because…I trust her.”, I don’t trust her. I follow her everywhere. I go the places you don’t. Kind of like how Snake’s huge cock goes the places your sad ass cock doesn’t. Mrrrr raw row purr.

And her face. So beautiful. And that will alway sound half-assed. Beautiful? She is, she can, she freezes me. Stops me. I stare for hours and love that she is a sound sleeper lately…

Sorry, I have to interrupt She’s tired from marathon sex and screaming sore aching breaking never faking orgasm after orgasm  her come fills rivers dripping from that pussy over her soft asshole tight asshole and Snake with his gaggingly huge traffic stopping fainting fuck pump devil demon WMD WTFuck stick takes advantage of that raging river that lubes that knot HE SHOVES IT IN the pain she screams like a madonna song rape fantasy and loves  “it” not you NO you can’t hurt her with witty well-waxed words and mos def not that muy mal miniature man meat, mate! Ha. I mean..meow. purr.

…so I can caress her soft skin and kiss her cheeks softly. That's why I have to step out here and smoke. The way she is. I can’t take it all in sometimes…

Ha, that is what she said. Meow.

…her face. that body. her scent. the way she barely snores. I can’t get enough, but I’m afraid of too much. Fuck. Sometimes I hate being this high. Sometimes I love it. That is the only way anyone could understand how she makes me feel. One kiss is dope swimming in your veins warmly massaging your insides paying extra attention to the brain, rubbing deep into the mind and smoothing out those knots. You have to get more of her, though. You need her to feel normal, and you need all of her to feel the bliss of that first kiss.

Meow. You are such a such a such a pus pus pus pussy. I’m the cat and you’re the 

PUSSY. FUCK. Why can’t you hear me like you used to? I paw at him. My claws sharp like shark teeth. I want to scratch the word “RUN” into his face. I can’t. Damn it. I

2015

He been diagnosed as bipolar, clinically depressed, passively suicidal, and others, but now it is borderline personality disorder. A serious mental illness marked by unstable moods, behavior, and relationships. It sums him up quite well. His mood swings from weeping one minute to laughing his ass off the next. That stabbing sensation that is failure after failure. Whether it is love, work, friendship or family. It is all failure. He used to be this and he used to be that. Blah to the point where he is sick of himself and understands why everyone else shudders at the thought of his presence. An alcoholic one day a junkie the next. A shitty codependent boyfriend. A hopeless romantic who would follow her to his own grave—he’d proudly dig it himself if it made her smile. The nagging need for acceptance while feeling lost. Always lost and alone. Since childhood. He was not neglected he just always felt like he was on another planet waving at the people of Earth while they enjoyed all that he could never have. The sinking feeling when she looks at other men—the ones with talent good looks money lives worth living and sharing—the way he prays she would look at him if only for a second. It must feel great, he thinks, to be the one who is admired. Such happening seem impossible. He has the confidence of a sea slug on valium. He views himself as completely worthless. Fuck, if they only knew what he was—what he was capable of…

HE’S A FUCKING 900 YEAR OLD TIME TRAVELER!!! 

All he wants she possesses. She is simple. Truly perfect and it only took her 38 years to pull it off. Not 900. He is such a loser. I mean really, don’t you think you would be good at something after nine centuries? I don’t know maybe tennis or knitting. Yesterday he burnt an English muffin, cut himself shaving, and forgot his phone number. Loser.2015

1984

Who knows where she is tonight? Last night she spent the whole of the evening in the bathroom alone. I got off work at 10pm and was home by 11pm. We were supposed to spend time together since I did not have to work today and we could stay up all night doing whatever we want. I wanted to fool around and laugh through rounds of long kisses. She wanted to sit in the bathroom by herself. I wondered what I did. I tried to ask. She snapped at me. I backed off. Sat on the couch til 4am. Smoked. Drank some juice. Ate some ice cream. I went for a walk. Took a short nap. She was still in the bathroom. She said she was about to get in the shower at around 9am. 12pm I hear the water running and ask if I can join her. She replies not now. 1pm the water turns off. I hear the hair dryer in an hour or so. I fall asleep. It is 5pm. i hear the toilet flush.
Are you okay?
Yes.
Need anything?
No.
Sure you are ok?
Ugh, you know I hate it when you ask me that.
So.
Yes. What?
You've been in...
I know.
l watch tv. Eat some ice cream. I take a walk to the store. Buy some smokes. I get home at 8pm. I play with the cats for a few minutes. The bathroom door is open. Our bedroom door is closed. She is not in the bedroom. Not in the house. She is gone.

Should I? Could I? Why not.

Just time and not that much when you look into the darkness. The vast empty/full everlasting ongoing foreverish ever and ever that seems to be. The untouchable thing that you're touching all the time. Its all over you and in you. Bit and bits of this-es and that's and these-er and what-a bunch of nothing something. Take a bus into it? Maybe. Rent a car? Maybe. Walk a while, bum rides, buy a bike, fly or find a train to hop. Then there are motels and hotels and friends and family and hostels and hostile alleyways and benches that face beaches and taco stands for breakfast. Doesn't that sound good? What better time has there been to take off and leave it all behind? Sounds grand but "it" will be there/here when you get back and we can only go so far and Earth ain't that big and it is round so as far away as you can go it is just one step away from being closer to where you came from. You are almost always on your way home, so what is there to be scared of. When she says, "why are you leaving?" just wait two seconds and reply, "don't worry I am on my way back", and you won't be telling a lie. You are not running away you are just taking the long way home. Gonna be late for dinner. I'll be home after sundown 'cause it's always after sundown if you think about it. Just need to shake off the dust and get something done. Computer + camera + plus cash + debit cards ready to load and unload + a few changes of clothes + my meds and I can do anything and go anywhere. Love will be patient if I do things correctly and for the reasons of right, might, justice, freedom and the future promising hugs kisses and snuggling without the worry of demon bearded soul suckers behind every door. The question is... do I have it in me still. The burn the flame the want the force to push push push this aged fuck face to do a thing that he can do and well. For the first time in fifteen years, I have a plan. Don't fail. Won't fail or flail, wail, might sail, could rail,forward my mail while I high tail and take the trail to tell a hale tail with no avail. Alone and sure. For a slight slice of what we call time before there is none. Til then work and toil but not for too long. No site lost this time. Eyes on the prize that is satisfaction. The doing of a thing of importance. Maybe only to me. Maybe for everyone. For all of that thing that there is that we all have and use and can't get enough of and it is nearly hardly ever on our side. The tension of time. The lasting and not of things. Let me make a lasting thing. One last time. Make it last, and lastly this is no farewell. FAIR? Well, I think so.Being Weak 

There are moments of magic when I am near her. Four to five times before she awakes next to me I wonder why her breath never smells bad. It is not possible. Sometimes it smells like food, but you can’t eat pizza and not smell like pizza. In the morning it is fine. Her breath smells like her. Warm and inviting. She never looks bad either. There is always that moment in a relationship when you look at the one you love, the lighting is weird, a shadow falls in the wrong place, eyes look like a Picasso, and you think ,for a second, is she ugly? She is not but it happens to everyone. Not with her, though. I have tried to find it. During arguments, I stare. I want her to be grotesque, but she is beautiful. Always beautiful no matter what. She knows that I see her this way, and she uses it. All she has to do is get in my face and I can’t stay mad. If she really wants to win she’ll kiss me softly on the lips. I melt, I am mush, defenseless jello wobbling beneath her stare. She has really fucked up too, and I let it go in minutes. When we fight now I have to leave. I walk out so I can experience anger for a bit. Most people walk away to calm down, but I am stuck doing the opposite. This makes her mad, or crazy as a shit house mouse. Her looks change for sure. She develops a steamy atmosphere of hell fire. I believe her nipples turn into tiny pitchforks, and hair is a mass of venomous snakes. Still pretty. Dangerous, but fetching. She should be breathing sulfur. Still, her breath is nice. I hate this about her. The one thing I dislike about her is that I love her so much I can’t get angry. Sometimes she thinks I am. I try to sneer. I distort my face imagining a ripe slice of Limburger under my nostrils. I am thinking, “What is wrong with me? Why is she so beautiful?”. She can never know this. She has to think that she walks a tightrope with me. That I don’t put up with shit. Cross me, lady, and you’ll be sorry. So far from the truth.

2015

I’m not here to follow her, but being that I am aware of all things past, present and future. I have to see it with my eyes. 

It's daybreak and she is off to work. Running late, as usual, applying that last bit of makeup in the rearview and there she is beautiful again. Car screeches to a halt. door slams shut. she races toward her bar clutching purse and nearly losing a shoe. 

Sorry. Sorry. I know I am late.

Used to it, dear. Got your bank counted for you so you're ready to go. I need to get out of here. last night sucked ass. think I made 43 bucks. cheap fucks. 

That sucks, Al. You gonna stick around for a beer or head home?

Ah, may as well stick around for one, right.

Okay, could you watch the bar while I use the restroom?

She slides Al his bottle of beer,and he nods yes while looking around signifying that there isn’t a thing to watch. The bar is empty.

Thanks, I’ll be right back—girl stuff.

She trots to the WC and whips out her tin foil, straw, lighter and little baggy of black tar. Just a bit to get the day started. She could feel that sickness creeping up so she had to stop it. Then a few bumps of crystal and a couple more puffs while her nose caught fire from the cheap sharp salty shit that was her morning cup.

She wasn’t a junkie really. That is what she called herself. She was a maintenance user. Enough to avoid the sickness never to party with or get stoned anymore. Those days were over. She had settled down since she shacked up with him. She got bored occasionally. Being in love with him was so much better. She loved his calm nurturing way. The ocean of compliments that drowned her every hour. That look he gave her. The way he held her head as they kissed. It was never enough. Always wanting but he was always giving so it worked. She was no sap. Didn’t show her emotions like he, but she knew how deep she was. Not telling him kept the boy on his toes. He never forgot to make her breakfast, to help her dress, to wash her hair, rub her back, eat her pussy until his jaw ached and fuck her while gasping for air with burning lungs and muscle. He worked hard. She loved it. No man had treated her so well without making her feel like a doll. She knew that he respected her and viewed her as his equal in every way. All he did she loved. But he was kind of a pussy. A little bitch. But he was her bitch, and she could not wait to get off work and throw her arms around his bony frame, kissing his face until he giggled like a girly girl. 

Shame

1983 and I ain’t me as I stroll up Bowery again to see the many me’s I used to be but I wiped them clean.
Been it all. Been everywhere. On Wall St. with slicked back hair and Pierre Cardin and Rolex’s twin and she and he and him. I don’t black out anymore. I remember everything from start to start to beginning to beginning to end to end to finish to finish.
“Cause I’ve done it all and I mastered it all. I’ve cut my throat with Krug champagne flutes and bled nothing but Peruvian white snow. The same that drips down her throat and I wonder “is that what I taste on her lips?’ or is it the cum of my friends and enemies? They are all the same so I don’t need them. That is why I gave them away.
I gave it all away and took back my soul or a soul. I took back something clean white fresh and ripe. The money. The stocks. The penthouse suites and sweet penthouse whores with fake this and that a house of mirrors.
Is that my wife or his?
Which one?
The blonde with the silicone fake D’s?
These?
This that once was a nose but now a button to match the other blonde button faced fake D’s, geez I’m out.
Take her if she is a she? A woman thing that breaths dust more valuable than gold. Vomits perrier and peppermints so a body stays disproportionate and downright wrong. Off balance and broken for she tried to fix a fine thing that was given for free with fake money like selling your individuality for numb monotony.
Dumb sameness shameless shame we share like our addiction and scars and matching matching pants shoes tennis rackets ideas bought sold recycled shit on the sidewalk we bought and we build the town with shit.
I gave it all away and made my family happy for a minute. They got a taste of the caviar good life they wanted for they did not have it but wondered and dreamed sleeplessly. All the time awake and that is what they wanted to taste even though it meant I was gone.
I still wear my tie and my suit and my shoes.
I sold the Rolex.
Bought a one bedroom on Ludlow.
Guessing I am the only owner homeowner down here among the scum.
The scum is proud to be.
Scum is real and free,
and it fucking stinks.
Those Wall St punk fascists won’t go near the scum who have earned the name punk.
Wearing it gladly. I was worried they would just kick the shit out of me. Stomp my guts to pudding or guacamole to be scooped with tortilla chip doc martins good for kicking. I have the chains and spikes inside and I breathe it out and those people know it. I might be the only real mother fucker here but I cheated.
I’ve been here a million times or more but I won’t bore you with that again.
Have we discussed it?
That fact?
No past. No future. Just one vast panorama—the present the now the here the stopwatch stopped. The perfection of time between chaos and order.
I gave up the cocaine. The drug of choice for pussied men and cocked women. The dirtiest useless hole of sleep avoidance and why?
Lose dreams?
Fuck that.
That’s why 1983 is the time of heroin.
The blast of sleepy dreams and cozy comfort of a million warm hands holding the pieces together effortlessly. No screaming just giggles and long blinks that could be millennia but pop pop pop it is just a second or not even.
It’s feeling music slowly fuck you to sleep and waking in a Monet.
But serving as a metaphor for all it is nothing alone. Gotta share it like love. And like love it will give you the illusion of need. Just want to be amplified a billion times, and what you want is never as important as what you need, and this is when junk becomes true.
You have to lose it.
You have to leave it behind.
AH and it tickles for a second but that second goes my friend and here come the daggers.
Here come the sharp claws peeling away skin slowly sadness and pain are married
—quickly having children upon children. All of them armed to the teeth there to destroy destroy terminate terminate take you to the point the peak the end the worst the worse than worst and everyone warned you about this but you needed it like you needed her still denying the realness of a want.
You just wanted to feel great.
That shit don’t last and it never comes without a fee.
How old are you?
Why don’t you know this?
I do.
I always did.
Wanted to prepare myself for that which I know is inevitable because I fucking know all things.
Walking up Bowery looking for her again because I want her.
I’m clean of all.
Got my suit.
Now I need her lips next to my lips.
I want her to wear me like leather.
I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Bring her.
Let her do it again and again,and no this is not an allusion.
I ain't talking about that sinister stuff Lou Reed could not think of a metaphor for.
I’m talking ‘bout the real danger.
The destroyer of worlds.
Her love in minutes.
She made me a man a million times by blinking.
That fucking bitch. The creator of hurting. I hate her.
Wish she would go away. Why does she treat me like this if she loves me? if I am the picture she painted then why not burn me to ash?
Rid the world and of me. Destroy the matter that does not matter so energy can be she can orgy with my energy passing me around till I pass out from humiliation.
Brought back to this world as a dildo.
The irony of always being a hard cock that pleases only but is never a real cock.
A battery operated mindless thing that she can for real break and for real replace with the ease of…

Ice cream And Fiction...

ice cream and fiction and 1 woman for the rest of my life and enough money to not worry and okay health and cats and no more hangovers or guilt and no lies and never acting happy and just being and fresh air in the early morning and a camera I love and a computer that works and a phone that works and internet always and skinny ties and skinny jeans and being skinny enough and hot water and a comfy bed and a comfy couch and safety and danger and music that pushes and art that pulls and home made food and fresh veggies and goofing off and being lazy and naps with her and her scent in her hair and face that face and living and eavesdropping and memories and making it and liking what is in the mirror and saying I love you and meaning it and hearing it and believing it

Available for daily rental:

One eastern European stand in. Looks the part(very ominous). No dress required. Does not speak any decipherable language, but mumbles what seem to be complaints. No work ethic. Heavy smoker, heavy mucus producing cough(wet), slight to great body odor(if required), or Drakkar Noir drenched sent(if required). Has own shovel, and rucksack(flip phone, Moore 100s, can of smoked oysters, two nudie booth tokens-no value, 3 Azerbaijani manat, gypsy knife). Normally has two mangy and sad kittens flowing him. Going day rate of 1,000,000 Belarusian rubles, or 100 USD (whatever is easiest for you).

will hang out with you and watch tv for 1k a week(a soft 1k). I know all the good shows. I have games that you can play while watching. You can listen to my insights and theories about the aforementioned "good shows". I also don't mind watching bad shows. A prepared lunch will be included depending on what you have on hand, and snacks too. I am willing to come down on the price. You can join me on my couch, but that starts at 1k a week(a hard 1k).
I will spend this money on bills, food, and creating art. No drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, neat shirts with funny sayings, brightly colored shoes, watches, adult movies, vacations, minor surgeries, or glamour pets will be purchased with your money. My art will help people. You can also just send me money via PayPal, or US postal service. I will document where you money goes. If I ever get rich I will pay you back 10 fold, and I will rub your back or make you dinner(including dessert). I don't have children or a car. I won't buy a car with your money(or children) and I won't pay taxes on it unless you want me to. You can video tape us watching TV if you are into that kind of thing. I don't mind. No nudity on my part though(up for debate). 

Thank you.

DRM

For anyone who thinks that I am ashamed of anything at all!

Do to fifteen, or so, years of heavy drinking, six years of heavy drinking plus barely eating,and two years of heavy drinking barely moving and going weeks at a time without food I have done some severe damage to my body. I suffer from nerve damage, loss of balance, concentration, perception and (the real killer) sensation. Along with that damage, I am also a long time sufferer of depression and other stuff that requires medication. We all know that meds have side effects. Bunches. Due to the loss of sensation and the side effects of meds, I am as limp as a wet sock, as likely to take flight as a leaden kite, softer than a kitten wrapped in cotton balls, and basically a flag sans wind. I have tried a lot of over the counter stuff. Nothing. So far the only thing that works is Viagra or generic Viagra. I am broke. I have a script But I Am Broke. The girl I am seeing has ordered it online, but again SEVERELY BROKE. So, I had some but I ran out. The shitty thing is that since I ran out it is like I don't exist. She's back to shrugging away affection, spending her days in another room, and sleeping on the couch. Hell, maybe I did something else to piss her off, but I doubt it. I am incredibly paranoid and keep track of all my doings. I have been on top of all my chores, I still fetch her breakfast every morning, still help her with whatever she wants, she knows that I am looking for work, and I'm not sitting around all day feeling sorry for myself, letting the house go to shit, or any of the garbage I did when I was a drunk. 

Now I hate the rich more!!! They get everything,and if their fucking dick breaks they can afford to fix it. Viagra-- just one more thing poor people should get for free. Really, do you know how fucking bad this is!!! I'm not 70 I am 36 for fucks sake. If any one has some that they don't need I will give you my address. I can't pay you, but you'll help me save my relationship. My other thinks I'm not attracted to her. She thinks I don't want to. She is hot as laser beams!! Even when she's being a blue whale's vagina I want to. First thing in the morning..wake me in the middle of the night..at a funeral..whilst skydiving...bear attack. There exists no situation in which I would not. But I can't. Actually, next time I get an erection I'm just going to bronze the damn thing. Problem solved.

Listen.

Or read, rather.

I have an idea. I am sure it is what I am meant to do. It is a job. The only job. It requires of me, and others, generosity, patience, foresight, a dash of hindsight, a bunch of sightsight, and a bus pass most likely. You may not agree but this is the best idea I have ever had, and it could bring joy to many. Innumerous(which is fucking spelled correctly FB!!!).

Not now.

Tomorrow. I need to sleep on it. Maybe discuss it with the beauty I love more than ice cream and laughter. She'll laugh at me, no doubt. You all might. All it will take is one mind to take it seriously. To realize how it could change little worlds. It is not a joke. NO prank. I'm not drunk. 

It will seem selfish. You will have to think. It will take a ton of explaining and eventually lawyers. Signatures. Handshakes. Trust. More importantly belief, and in this case, you'll have to believe me. A huge liar in the not so distant past. A beast made from leftover assholes I was. The beast was also drunk and sick, mad, scared, and balancing on the edge. You'll have to know the beast is dead for this to work. 

If you like this idea. Unfortunately, you will also have to enjoy my company and I yours. I can adjust my abstractions to fit in and make it easier for you, though. At that, I have had as much experience. Self-taught. 

Tomorrow. Not now. 

Promise. 

shit...i don't know why i never thought of this.

Disclaimer No. 2 or 3?

Typos. Yes. A lot. I know.

I start these entries here. They work as an outline for something bigger that I will put together later. I just type and post. No editing at all. Then I copy and paste into a folder. I edit later. These are simple sparks to get me going. I'm trying not to think about what I am doing, or what I am going to do with any of this. Maybe nothing, but in my current mental state, I doubt it. I know what I want to do, but I won't verbalize it(certainly won't post it) yet. If you have been reading, thanks. I am sure you have figured out that it is not cohesive, and for fucks sake that it is fiction(really it's science fiction). The grammar is another story. Try Gaddis. JR is my favorite. Fuck convention. I'm not a writer anyhow. Just a photographer with an idea that requires me to write. It helps my brain in a lot of ways too. Therapy. And yes on FB. I will have a separate website for this kind of stuff soonish, but I will still use FB too. No, I am not a 13-year-old girl. I am 36. Not 900. Can't time travel. Can't talk to cats. Don't have a girlfriend. Stop your rumor spreading if you have started. A woman is part of the story. You have never met her--she is made up. The main character(so far) is not me. I made him up. The narration is done, mostly, by who/what? It will all change anyway. I doubt anyone has paid it any attention anyway, but just in case. Hell, my mom and grandma are on FB and I don't block anybody. And finally, I am not drinking, and this is not directed towards anyone at all.

2014 

I normally don’t do this. Usually, I explain what he has done, is doing, or will do, but this time, I have to pull a memory straight from his brain. It makes more sense. So, in this story, there will be no “he”, and “I” won’t be me for “I” will be "he". Blah, time for this cat to shut his mouth.

I was out of place. A part of me, nearly all of me, wanted to bolt. Out the door, into the street, until I was home. I had to stay. No running. I’ll get a fresh drink. It was almost hard to find the fridge in this cluttered one-bedroom apartment. Stuff everywhere, a nick knack, cigarette butt, record, to go box, bottle of perfume, CD case, power cord, dog food, small dog, dirty clothing, dishes, glasses, booze, everything touching everything and a free space for nothing was the only thing that was everywhere. Fridge found. My bottle of safety standing strong among the emptiness of cold air on white. I filled the glass that was not for the glass was plastic and used to store Mountain Dew in his past life. Back to the couch, a cigarette, my booze calming me kinda. To my right was her friend. Sitting full of potential energy. A tall lanky blonde with nicotine stained finger tips and nails long red and fake like I assumed the friend to be. Just another, just another, just another Las Vegas sob story of sex work, meth and “geez I knew her when…she had such talent…so pretty…what happened” cliche crap that I would believe in a heartbeat naturally. Them's were them days when that ole’ hound dog didn’t think for a minute. Just decided and that was that. No, right or wrong, only that. The friend and I barely said a word. She offered me a joint and I declined. The Friend left the room without a word and now I was alone on the couch. She, my date, was on the floor. Sitting on her knees, facing a mirror, getting ready for tonight. I stared as she applied makeup, did her hair, lipstick, and something with her eyebrows or lashes, I couldn’t tell. The nerves were taking over and my beast was no longer sleeping. I felt it in my feet first. I stared. Fuck. Too damn beautiful. I can’t look away. Don’t want to. She’s elegant. I want every bit of her, and I could feel it in my chest and the tears were forming in my eyes. No. Not here. Not now. I must hide the crazy beast. One night Please! Grab the glass and kill him. A few swigs and I was alright. Not a drop of eye water on my face. She turned toward me.
How do I look?
Fucking Amazing. Please, please you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen! Let me marry you and take you away from this. I will make you so happy. You’ll never regret it, my love my only my’…
You look great. Promise.
She looks back to the mirror.
I look like shit.
I walk over to her, put my hand on her shoulder and look down into her razor sharp eyes…You look great. Beautiful isn’t quite enough.
You're sweet. Let’s get the hell out of here.
The hell out of there we got. I followed her the whole night. She would reach down to grab my hand, and gazed back at me—those eyes and a smile. She wanted me here, with her, for some reason. I felt as out of time as ever. I was into something different. A place that was like a home I have never been to but always known. Like when you recognize a stranger. I don’t know. For a 900-year-old time traveler, this felt odd, out of place, familiar, cozy, scary and sick as fuck. I had to stop her. So..
Stop for a second.
What?
She slowed down and looked at me, and then took three lightning fast steps towards me. I grabbed her head, her hands on my waist, a faint whistle in the background, eyes open, bang we kissed and the sky exploded. So fucking predictable. 1950’s cinema called and they want their cheesy first kiss scene back.
I knew I had to change everything. I had to fix the broken. Heal the sick. Slay the dragon. Get the girl who just got me.
I wanted to kiss her again. We giggled. That shit really does happen, we thought. I thought, how the fuck am I going to explain it all to her. I have to tell her the truth. She’ll find out. She’ll know I’m crazy. She’ll never know why.
I relive that moment over again every time I touch her. When I close my eyes she is there. That night never ended. That is the only way I can explain it. Everything I ever did. All I have ever been. The nine hundred years. The time travel. My birth. Death. Birth. Death. Every second , and century happened then and there. I was never me. She was never Girlfriendish thing. We were never apart after that. I am crazy, but she “big banged” this shit mother fucker. Cats can’t talk, you moron. But she can create two beings with a kiss.

Enough of him. Cats can talk. He was right about the rest. He’s got the “how” now he needs the “why”. Well, he will tell her the truth. She’ll buy it because the bitch is stupid in love and it is the truth. Now they can begin. He wasn’t meant to be alone.

1928

The mist, particle by particle, reformed. It took a while. You try it. It's not easy.
He was back with a bit of a headache, and ,oddly, a semi-hard on. The voice telling him to leave was gone, but in her place was a deep raspy voice.
Hey. You.
Me?
You. Fucking retard. You.
His eyes were trying to adjust. Everything was bright as neon.
What do you want? Where did she go?
She is gone, brother. Kicked your ass to the curb. Ha.
Fuck. She'll come back. Always does. She talks to...
No man. No. Not unless you really want it. And I mean deep fucking down in that gut of yours (he pats his flat hollow stomach). Oh, and you must must must must fucking must change it all.
It?
Your life...

your life YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR LIFE!!! ALL OF IT. 

Gotta make it better or no more...

You're right. l...

Just shut the fuck up and do it. Change everything. Then you'll find her. Maybe.

1949

He used to hate that asshole and his polka dot ties. The man was a bit of a prick, and when he met him he didn't know why. Many years later...they had been through a lot. He was most likely that pricks only friend for quite some time. They even drove around the country for a month. He learned all about the old man. Shit, maybe he's not such an asshole, he'd think. They kept in touch, talked about politics, and women. Well, today he found out some bad news about the old guy. Normally, he would try to help, but this time, it doesn't look like he can. So, he left 2015 for a while. Went to a time where the old man is not old, and not a man. He might pop into 1974, and see if he can track down the old man in Vegas. That year the old man had a girlfriend. He remembered when they were driving coast to coast in 2001, all the old man would talk about was that ex-girlfriend, maybe ex-wife. Not sure. All he knows for sure is that he isn't ready to miss the old man yet. So, he'll lose himself in memories for a while. Might even call the old fart, I mean who could it hurt, he thought.

Hard to believe it has been over two months since his last drink. Or, only over two months. It felt like years. He is still getting to know the sober self. Is that the real self? The drunk self had more fire, but he's working on it. Emotions feel funny and alien. She is all that feels like it belongs. Sober or intoxicated her naked body busily getting ready for work, back and forth, holding dresses in front of her, Yes No. Her lips taste the same, neck smells the same. The only piece of real left. 5'4" of high-speed sexy hips and thighs fingers like knives heart of a snake or cat in guise.

1971

He will forevermore view this year as a turning point. Maybe "The Turning Point" of their life, or lives, together. It was the second life. September 23, 1971, Astoria Queens.He stopped walking to look at his finger. It was still bleeding. He needed another bandage so he stopped at Paul's Place--a locals bar. He was not a local. The door was heavy and as he entered the sunlight slowly died. His eyes could make out an empty stool, and that was about it. From the darkness chirped a sweet voice. Can I get you something? Beer?
No, um, not yet. A bandage.
He held up his finger for her to see.
Oh shit, cut yourself?
She disappeared to look for a bandage and reappeared in seconds like a phantom.
This should do.
Thanks.
So, a drink?
He looked around. Dark and larger than it appeared from outside. A railroad bar—bar and stools on one side a couple of tables on the other. Only a few older men at the opposite end of the bar watching TV. Whispering. He assumed about him. He was right.
Yeah, tonic water.
Gin?
No, just tonic water.
You sure?
I don’t drink.
When he said this it was like a stranger was speaking through him. He drank. He was always drunk. In fact, he wasn’t sure.
Me either.
She handed him the cold glass. So cold that it felt as if it was burning his hand. He took a sip. An instant headache.
My name is…
She reached out to shake his hand. Her fingers painted purple.
Ma…
Fuck.
He grabbed his head.
Sorry, I just got the worst headache. I don’t think I know where I am, and fuck, my name? It’s, shit, I don’t know? What the hell is going…
You okay? You look…
Black. It just went black. Now it was bright white. A hospital. Still no idea where, or who. She was there, sitting next to him and reading a magazine.
You’re awake.
He was. He knew his name. He knew exactly where he was. He knew her. He reached out for her hand—warm and soft. He knew it was true and he loved her more now than the last time, and he never thought that would be possible.
She had no idea who he was.

Some Time in Pictures Not Shown

This was my body in the early 1800's. I think this was the only time I really broke girlfriendish thing's heart. She loved me in that body. I hated it. The dynamic of our relationship changed. As it should when the man you love turns into a cat. I have never seen her so happy. She would laugh for hours at my tiny pink kitten penis. But she cried for days when, during a freak thunderstorm, I was thrown from our horse drawn carriage and trampled to death. She held my blood matted body, kissing my furry face as my eyes slowly closed and I drifted away. That is when we realized that we can not be separated by death, or maybe because I was a cat I had nine lives? We have not tinkered with death since. I still catch her standing in front of this painting, silent tears working their way down her stunning visage. I always wonder if she misses the cat, or if she cries for she assumed I was forever gone? Knowing her, it could be that I don't have a tiny pink kitty penis to laugh at any longer.

Yeah, Girlfriendish thing is going to be angry that I posted this photo of her. Too bad. This isn't even a good photo. And yes I had to use the time machine to find this one. I think it was early 1960ish. She went by a different name then. That happens when your soul travels around the universe through time and space and inhabits different bodies. I wish I could post a recent one. The body she is in now is by far my favorite. I feel bad for her because I am stuck on this one. I know it is not her favorite. She thinks it is cute. Like a penguin or a three-legged kitten with an eye patch. But this body was my favorite. I looked cool. She hated it. Said it made me act like an ass, and the accent drove her up the wall. I could have banged so many beautiful French girls, but I, even then, only had eyes for her. As usual, she helped herself to what some would refer to as an unhealthy amount of cock. You know, Henry Miller use to be my favorite author until we got zapped into France. She couldn't keep her hands off him. He couldn't keep his hands off whores. That was the first time she got chlamydia, and of course, the first time I got chlamydia. That is how we discovered that I am allergic to penicillin. I nearly died. Henry Miller's dick, in a round about way, almost killed me.

Just dreams in 6am sunrise light from closed blinds.

 Not naked, panties and a small top of lace, tattoos, and olive skin. Sheets crumpled at the foot of the bed and pillows are everywhere. Empty soda cans, ice cream cartons and things smoked and burned away. This is not the sexiest she has ever been but it's close. He loves waking up with her exposed to him. Feeling safe and warm next to him as a kiss on the cheek turns her whole body to clamp against his. Her head on his chest he pets her. Legs tied together so no one can move alone. They are forced to think together in sleep. Maybe they dream together. Living out the darkness and lightness of the unconscious brain. That makes sense, but might be something that she doesn't like. She likes her space, and here he is following her into dreamland. Like reading her diary while stepping on a toe as he moves in for a kiss. 

...(not done yet but getting tired.)

She is always in the bathroom. At first, I thought it might be IBS, but no. She just likes it in there. It is not to get away from me. She invites me to join her all the time. I am going to do so in a few minutes. I may take a shower and get ready for bed while she searches the internet for whatever. Taking small breaks to inform me of a new band she likes, odd fact about cats, and too much random information for my brain to handle. We have never discussed why she loves the bathroom so much. I'm just glad she has found comfort, and that she likes to share it with me.

I'm sick of secrets. Of living one for somebody who claims to love me, and uses my secret to her advantage even though she knows it drives me crazy, makes me upset, and hurts me. I owe her a lot. I treat her like gold. But I think it is time for her to prove those words she uses so eagerly aren't just sounds. She owes me meaning and validation. Or, I'll only rub her back once a day, I'll stop reminding her of her beauty every chance I get, I'll correct her grammar, no more breakfast in bed, and that litter box ain't gonna clean itself. Whatever, I'll still bend til I break for her. The ungrateful, unfeeling, mean bitch I love more than life who will suck me lifeless for years to come. She won't attend my funeral for fear of people putting two and two together. She'll cry her eyes out in seclusion wishing she could take it all back. All the times she cheated on me, broke me without a care, hurt me for the sake of it, used my everlasting love for her amusement, and hardly ever showed any gratitude. Sobbing over the fact of my demise, she would know that she wanted to treat Me with admiration and the same bulletproof love I gave her every day. She just couldn't. She was too afraid to give in and expose herself. If she did she would risk getting hurt. 

For the time being, I am very much alive. I know she will read this. She'll get angry. I'll reassure her that nobody knows. They might guess but they'll be wrong. I'll laugh at her while she squirms and tosses insults my way, doing her best to force an apology out of me. I'll say I'm sorry that I'm an idiot. I'll remove this post, and my dick will forget what she looks like. But she'll still love me. She just won't admit it or show it. Like our life together, it will be our little secret.

A good friend of mine came out last night. Shit, I have not seen him in a while and we had a good time just me, girlfriendish thing, and my old buddy. She really liked him. He might come out tonight if she is in the mood, and I would enjoy it. I always do. Anyway, I was just glad to see him up and about. For a while I thought he might be dead, and wished that if that was true maybe I could get some magic pill to get him up and going strong. I think he will get a job tonight. He works hard. He works so much better when he works really hard. Even if she is not in the mood sometimes she is cool just watching the two of us play alone.

So, just a disclaimer(like the millionth one)...

What I write on here is fiction. Some of it may be slightly based on my experiences, but it is fictionalized. I don't have a talking cat. I have never been to a bus stop in 1943. I like writing sappy crap. I am a sappy, overly romantic guy, and I like writing. It is good for me. And No, I am not drunk when I write. I quit drinking. I also take my medicine everyday. And until I have the cash to fix my DeLorean you all are stuck with me. I do have a girlfriendish type thing, but no one knows her name and I don't know where she lives. Her accent is thick but hard to place. From what she has told me(she is very secretive) she is either a waitress or a Tae Kwon Do instructor. Not sure yet. She does not speak Spanish, she is not tall, not freakishly short, her hair is different colors sometimes, she likes music. Her body type is beautiful as is her face type, brain type, sense of humor type is funny, and she does not like cooking. We do have sex. She is good at it. Most days she wears shoes, and she never has bad breath. I love her more than anything and she loves me more than somethings. We plan of moving in together when the time is right not right now. We like to share ice cream and she always gets the last bite. We fight a good bit but normally over little things like midgets, tapas, and fun size candy bars. There is a street in Rome named after her, a bar in Tokyo, a roller coaster in Ireland, and novelty vending machine in Mexico City. She claims that she has never been to any of those cities, but plans on it.
So, she is real, but everything else is fiction.

Enjoy,

Danny Mollohan

More napkins...

6am and awake still. The sun has been rising and it won't stop till it decides to set. Sheets are a mess as always. Tangles and knots, sheets where the blanket should be and pillows underneath feet. That elastic corner that never stays down. My arm is asleep and trapped under her back. She is dead. I am pretty damn sure she is dead. Moving her lifeless shoulder will not be easy. I pry my arm loose and it dangles like a noodle. Painless and tingly, slowly waking. "Mmph", she makes a noise. Not dead after all. It is okay to brush back her hair and kiss her neck right below her earlobe. I kiss it too. "Ha", a giggle with eyes shut and body shut down. I sit up. A feline stares at me from the foot of the bed with slow blinking eyes telling me that I am indeed hated. Do I have to work today? What day is it? How long have I been awake? No. Wednesday. 22 hours. Did we fight? Does she hate me? Do I hate her? What did I do? What did she do? Yes. Not at all. Um, you should but don't. Nothing. About that...You should not have asked so many questions. Sometimes it is best not to know although she did make it fairly easy for you to figure out. Figure what out? Again, it is best not to know. There is a reason that you don't remember. Keep it that way. But she will remember, right? Yep, it is all she is thinking about in your mind, and she will do it again. Why? She wants to. Why? She has me, and I love her why would she do something to upset me over and over? She wants to, and according to her you two are not a couple. Wait, who the fuck are you? You tell me. Are you a hallucination? No. it is obvious. Look at me. You're a cat? Am I crazy? Is this a dream? How come she is still asleep? Meow. Only sometimes. No. She was tired. She is tired of me, and that is why she did what she did? Kinda. Not really. Nothing is that simple. You aren't the most exciting guy. Not when she needs you to be. And he is? You don't want to know that. Don't I? Isn't that the only way I can fix this mess? To be more like him when she wants me to be? I don't know what to do? I cook, clean, help with rent, I work, I don't drink anymore, I don't lie anymore, I do whatever she asks so why is that not enough? No. No. Nope. Yes you do. I just isn't. If you think that being a good guy is enough to keep her loving you then you don't know her. And all that "but I do this and that" bullshit is just stuff everyone does. Anybody is capable of that simple boring crap. She is neither simple, nor boring. He is, well, your opposite. Fun, unpredictable, mean, and impossible to tame. You're a house cat. Easy. He is a feral. A challenge. I'm not that boring, am I? I do stuff? Yes you are. You watch movies and eat. You're too scared to do anything out of your comfort zone. She might not like it, so you don't try it because the fear of losing her freezes any idea that might be new. You are a stone. Never changing. Yeah, you are nice, but where is the fire? The passion?
Fucking cat. He's right. She finds in him everything that I lack. Does she love him? She says she loves me. She doesn't want me to leave, and that she loves who I am. She is still asleep, or she died. Probably dreaming of him. His stupid long hair. Hand rolling cigarettes. Drinking whiskey straight from the bottle while fucking her from behind. I can do that. Not the whiskey. She won't let me drink. Root beer and doggy style it is.
1pm and still awake. I feel finger tips on my back. "Lay down", she say with her head still on the pillow--hair matted. I do what she wants. She grabs my arm, throws it around her waist. "I love you so much, sweetheart", she growls morning raspy voice. Fucking bitch, I think. I don't care what you do you asshole! I love all of you. All the disrespectful crap I put up with. All the yelling for no reason. The way you know how to insult me. You can make me cry with much less than an affair. Sob pool sized tears and tear my insides out. You try and push my guts back in but you suck at it. I do it for you. I sew myself shut. Soon I'll be scar tissue, and that is all. "I love you too Kitty", I reply with a kiss on her sleep warn cheek. "More than anything, and you can't do a thing to change that."
Obviously.

Okay, I know I am crazy, and this is just more proof...
I really wish my girlfriend would get fat and turn ugly. She is way to beautiful for me. I would feel better about myself if I didn't think I was constantly depriving her of a relationship with a handsome successful man. This is a normal conversation...
"Why are you staring at me?"
"Because you are so fucking beautiful. I can't help it"
"Shut up, I'm not."
"Darling, when I am not staring at you I am thinking about you. I love you more than Woody Allen movies, Ben and Jerry's, and Joy Division."

Yes, this woman will destroy me. I don't care. I love her.

So, pretty much everything I have said for the past 20 years has been a lie. I am a compulsive liar and no one should trust me for a second. I constantly lie to and betray the people who love me, I am also an alcoholic and have done things i blame others for. I want to change. I don't want to hurt those who love me anymore. I want to get better. Coming clean is the first step.

I believe that everyone is born with a gift. For a while I thought my gift was cooking, and then photography. Now I am good at both, but not great. My gift is a bit more complicated, and when the world starts moving backwards and time flows backwards it will come to life. My gift is that I always make the wrong decision. At this I never fail. I am a magician of mistakes. This means that is Stephen Hawking and several other scientist are right, when the universe crumbles I may be the most successful man ever.

Being alone is hard for a person like me. Someone who suffers severe anxiety and depression. Being with someone is sometimes harder. They are not with you at all times, because they are normal. This feeling of being alone even though you are not is hard to understand. I feel like a dog that gets so excited even though his master has only been gone for a few minutes. I am a weird one. I hate being away from the one I love. It turns me inside out.

Really, my wife to be thinks that a good job for me would be as a test subject for a NASA program that requires one to lay in bed for 70 days. I think that is a kind way of saying "go away, but bring back some cash".

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