Alright. Drunk as fuck on a Wednesday. Can hardly hold myself up. Who’s there to ask as to what’s there to do? Hot Jesus almighty.

The beefy nacho griller from el bell sitting oh so shallow in the pit of my stomach threatens to rise up and reclaim its rightful place in the freedom of open air. It taste like a prelude to the depravity soon to come; I can’t hold myself back, and the way my body’s reacting, I know that I haven’t long the way I’m trying to keep on trucking. It’s nothing but sickness and pain and a desperation to see a gilded age long rusted over by disgust and repulsed by many “shoulda known betters”.

The problem: I do know better, I have known better, but I wanna keep going. I wanna feel a semblance of completeness, of fulfillment, the smug grin I see mirrored in the bottom of my last glass as the acid reflux crawls up to return that drink to whence it came. I can’t find happiness elsewhere, it’s just too steep, too short-lived like my expectations and resolve.

The stuff I have to look forward to amounts to the current status quo ending and being replaced with recurring nightmares of temporal loops and short tempered fits of outrage at everyone but myself, who is the sole innocent in the crime of keeping things as they are. Oh, how naive. What else can I fill my days with? I know what I can do so why the fuck am I so afraid to face my potential? It’s so sickening I can hardly live with myself. I choose the easy way out because I know at least I can have at least a bit of comfort while my future routes itself out. Things will turn out okay in the end; the end will spell itself out and by then I will have lost the aptitude to even think about my last words.

I don’t get what kind of drunkenness this is. It’s not exactly being sad. Sadness is a false sum of repulsive, wasted feelings. It’s a perspective, and not descriptive of the ruminations and relegations of the present. Its a tug of war, just me against the world, and either shutting it out and being miserable or looking to fill the hole with scalding liquids to sear the edges permanently shut. How much longer now?

What’s there to do when no one cares, not even I, as to what fate exactly awaits? I haven’t seen a glimpse of the future in nearly ten years, just excuses and pats on the back, delusions that everything is going smoothly and that my goals are in sights. I’ve been blinded by ineptitude. This road leads to nowhere, and I insist on a brighter tomorrow. What’s there to do for a fool such as I?

Excuse me while I throw up for the next few hours.

Five years of playing guitar.

Five hours of nonstop nicotine cravings.

Five “hurrah“‘s I give for my childhood hero’s birthday.

Five stars out of six for Iron Man 3.

Five more days until next weekend.

Bankrupt.

Good album.

Yeah.

Life after a solid mid-April weekend feels like a brick to the face and the accompanying swelling and probable concussion. I have things I want to do and stuff to enjoy but I just can’t get into it. I feel like just sitting in an armchair and nupping my days away. Shoulda never come back. Never shoulda relented to begin with.

Weakness, desire, instinct. Crabs eat shrimp. Bite their fucking heads off, no remorse for the hapless. Feel like a frantic headless arthropod. I’m failing marine biology actually, don’t listen to a damn word I say.

The faraway summer winds are high on the prowl. I can smell them wafting in from afar. Destitution and depravity. Weeks into months of stagnation. Orange dream ice cream. Watermelons with black seeds. The sly pulse of bebop flying right into the daybreak. Deadlines, decisions, just another obstacle between me and an ever elusive breed of satisfaction. No other pasture ever seems so green, and they’re all fenced off for the finer specimens. As a wild stag at least I might lose myself in a peerless gallop. I take off on my own accord, fuck the stampede.

Couldn’t keep my hands still. Gets worse without a smoke. I let loose and now I’m back on the pack. Lay awake late at night and my lungs ache. And I talk sometimes, and then I feel like a fucking psychopath. Pick up the guitar, crooning illusionary temptresses to slumber. I like the sound of my voice after scalding my throat with the bite of liquor and caking on careless layers of scorched plant matter. I imagine I sound something like a frog at the dissecting table, seconds after the incision, moments left to ponder its cruel fate.

“The tender caress of a summer pond… If there’s anywhere I might go when this all blows over, I’d sure like to wade those glistening waters just one more time.”

The other side of the hill is a contaminated wastebasket. You poor amphibious bastard.

I don’t want to embrace the glory of human potential. I just want to forget about fucking up, stop channeling what little brain power I have left into forgetting, enjoy myself in moderation and feel like I have a reason to press “continue”. I want them to invent green cigarettes that improve your health and a sobering machine like the ones in Milliways. I want people to stop dumping toxic waste into the ocean and abusing their children. I want the world to return to its truthful, sincere beauty. Fuck society. I’m angsty and have opinions that I don’t actually care all that much about and even though I might, I won’t do a damn thing about it because I feel like it’s not worth the effort to make an asshair’s worth of difference. Disgusting, aren’t I? The familiar stench of depravity, humans writing as if anyone else gives an ounce of true empathy.

I dunno. Everything just feels like it’s been lazily drawn, lazily written. Real life in contrition. Progress into destruction into decay into reclamation into growth into something possibly better. Maybe by planting ourselves into the ground we grow to become crazy astral tree men or some shit. Why is that not an established cult yet?

Decided to beat Mother 3 again to make me feel better. Crying bitch tears and finding a way home, a place to belong, after all the wrongs have been righted. It’s not really so much of an environmental message as it is a humanitarian one. We don’t have to live inauthentic lives, or be superficial, or create impossible standards and personal gaps that can never be filled in. Wake the sleeping dragon, take that chance. You’ve come a long way, everything will be all right. We’re cheering you on.

And the world grows back.

Happy Earth Day, and welcome home.