11:56 p.m. - 2006-04-06
It seems that no one cares.
I drink too much. I hate my dad. My job makes me crazy. I have intimacy issues. Blah, blah, blah. Who cares?
Soon I will be normal again. Soon I will spew my sweet smelling bullshit derived from my silver tongue into the ear of a worthy employer and he will look at my resume, listen to my words in the forum of an informal interview, and devour the lump of my leftover lies as if Thanksgiving took place one day before yesterday. And I will suddenly have a new, terrifically high paying job.
So it goes: the story of my life. Check back next year for the drama.
I am the perfect failure.
10:53 p.m. - 2006-04-05
But I don't just fuck. I fall in love. Every night. I see Julie, 42 years old, as the girl who understands me. Lori has the warmest kiss, but she is way too good for me. I will certainly find a way to make her hate me. I could spend forever with LaQuisha: she's a junior at the University of MD who thinks I am a brilliant writer.
But I'm not.
I'm just a frustrared individual who would like nothing better then to put a bullet into my brain but I can't because 3 people love me and their happiness is more important to me than my life: I'm fucked 'cause I cannot die.
Death will happen.
Until then, I'm looking to start a career with a company who places value on the ability for me to become a short-term hero: I am certainly short term. But I don't know if I'm capable of being a hero.
12:20 p.m. - 2006-04-01
I read your journals, and they are, with the obvious exception of personal style and voice, about the same as mine: a bunch of words which try to tell a story that may or may not be worthy of criticism or applause, but still serve the selfish purpose of the author.
We're all writing stories. If you've read my journal, you know that I have a drinking problem, I have a stressful job, and I have a distinct dislike for my father (and if you read a bit closer, you'll notice that I try to pepper my prose with poetic tricks; I also use way too much punctuation).
Do you know why I drink or why I hate my father? You could certainly speculate, but I've yet to say. I probably don't know.
But I want to know, and I'll try to keep you informed as the answers come my way. Until then, here is one absolute truth:
10:14 p.m. - 2006-03-29
My most beautiful day took place seventeen months ago: the night I ironed my suit for the next day's job interview.
That was the last day that my skin was free of spots and stains and speckles and scars. That was the last day I had any control, at all, over my drinking problem. That was the last day that I winked confidently at myself in the mirror and felt the affirmation of a man moving up in the world.
Now I have a pudgy face and a pot belly. Now I have dark circles encompassing my bloodshot eyes. Now I have a decision to make.
10:07 p.m. - 2006-03-27
Secondly, I know that I'll never truely be able to acquiesce to the fact that my father's pitiful world is one day destined to be mine. So let it be written.
But before any words are spoken or any actions take place, let it be determined that I am a failure and I deserve to die. But I can't die, because if I die then my Mother dies, and that can't happen. So let it be written. So let it be done.
10:49 p.m. - 2006-03-22
1.) Yes, I am an alcoholic, but I'm a highly functioning alcoholic.
2.) I may hate my job, but I make a whole hell of a lot of money for doing it.
3.) My aloof nature tends to push people out of my life before they get to know my inner monster, but I've managed to manipulate a few special people into believing that I'm a loving son, a considerate friend, or a caring brother.
4.) I've so far succeeded in quitting smoking, I no longer have suicidal thoughts, I have a total and complete appreciation for the value and pitfalls of hate, and I fucked the bartender at the Days Inn Hotel Bar last night. Her name was Amber. She was 24, and she had an 8 year old son.
5.) Although I realize that Amber is alive and breathing, and still tending to the needs of her little boy, I finally recognize that in my world, Amber and all things pertaining to Amber, are past tense.
There can never be a now. Only a recent past and an immediate future. The gap in between is the shaming culpability of failed faith and neglected promises.
10:32 p.m. - 2006-03-20
It's not as easy as it may sound to quit drinking. I must drink. If I don't drink, I can't sleep. And why should I want to? If I do manage to take on a few hours of sober sleep, they will surely be meddled with by nightmares. And not ordinary nightmares. My nightmares are horrible illusions which aren't illusions at all. My nightmares put me in Nazi Death Camps and help me Burn in an Unforgiving Hell. My nightmares peel the skin from my flesh and the flesh from my bone.
My hangovers cannot be in any way associated with your hangovers. You may feel like "death warmed over" after a night of undisciplined drinking, but it's not the same. The pain I feel starts with the first sip of the first drink. I'll drink 5 times what you drink and only feel a fifth as bad, but my veins are polluted just the same as yours (I just have a predisposition to this Sin).
Mine will be a cold death: one that can only be appreciated alone.
10:30 p.m. - 2006-03-19
I'm quite upset with myself for bringing my "father" issues into these discussions, but I guess I should at least try to make this journal genuine.
I do hate my father. I call him my father, but, really, he was the man who occupied the right side of the couch and peed in the laundry sink and bumped into walls and asked me the same question over and over again: "What are you doing tonight?".
He called me last week. I ignored him. He called again. I was driving down I-95, almost to the PA border and I decided to take his call. It was just past 10pm. He asked me, What are you doing tonight?
I still want to kill my father.
11:56 p.m. - 2006-03-18
I hate my father.
Again, I hate to hate. I don't want to hate anymore.
I stayed in my cold apartment tonight and listened to the doors around me open and close as people departed thier homes and came back again. I hate them.
"I hate my father".
This is not as much of a cathartic statement as it may sound. I hate as much as I love. I want to kill my father. I feel as though I will never be myself until he is dead.
I'm thankful that I'm alive and healthy and ready to take on the world, but sometimes it doesn't sound so bad to get beaten in the back of the head until blood fills my mouth and chokes my lungs. It wouldn't feel so bad to die a slow death, and know that my death was a dramatic death.
At least better than a heart attack or brain cancer.
9:55 p.m. - 2006-03-16
I am weak. I am sad. I am almost dead.
11:29 p.m. - 2006-03-15
9:34 p.m. - 2006-03-14
I got sidetracked. I wrote the previous stanza of this entry over an hour ago. Since then, I have been seething about the responsibilities placed upon me in recent days. It seems that my life outside of work is no longer a consideration to my employer. Although I manage a territory with a 400 mile radius, it seems that 12 hours a day (travel included) is not enough. Fuck! I give all that I can! What else can I do?
I'm having one more glass of whiskey and then closing my eyes, coping with the reality that (despite the cliche), tomarrow is another day.