| | I have this attitude now at work. It's this perfect dead end job, so in the end it's really my fault for not becoming a successful fireman or at least radio personality. Anyway, I'm just really cold now, I don't want to crack jokes, get involved. It's just like what's the point? I haven't had this type of piss-poor attitude since high school, it seems like. It's a real 'high school' way to act. Like, I voted and Obama won, and I was like, "So?". It's a pathetic, selfish game I like to play with people. What it probably comes down to, as usual, is that I'm a lonely soul. I love these people, really, I love life, you know this. But, fuck you, fuck off ALL of you sometimes. | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment   |
| It was my birthday that weekend and we were celebrating in the upper peninsula of Michigan. It's a place where people fish the greatest streams and lakes, where people hunt for the very last time, where people see UFOs, where people commit brutal suicides.
John and Mandy and I went for a drive that sunny day, down a long paved road. We went fast, around 121 miles per hour. We pulled over near the sands to relax and John popped the hood. A small bat had crawled under the hood the night before and had been burned to death during the ride. I remember looking closely at the tiny gray thing, weightless, ash almost. It reminded me of a picture I'd seen from WWII. A Japanese soldier looking out the porthole of a tank, his face charred and twisted, teeth melted. It was a horrifying sight. The man had been burned and frozen at the same time, a nightmare I can't begin to fathom. I first saw the image in a Time Life magazine as a child. I imagined tapping his helmet with a tack hammer and watching the whole head fall into a pile of dust.
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| Things change when you don't expect them to and when they do you miss the way things were.
"What was I thinking?" That's what I want to ask myself years from now, that's what I ask myself now. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| | For those of you planning to go and see the Iron Man movie tomorrow, have fun. I'll be there, too, but only a little less excited than you all, probably. Why? Because I decided to read the A. O. Scott New York Times review. The prick laid a massive spoiler on me, really for no reason. Steer clear of his blowhard critique before you go see it. Hope this gets to you in time. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| | I was at the Blackhawk's game last week and there were some nice looking ladies in the row in front of us, you know, and it didn't stop me from saying something about a penis or a vagina (I can't remember which). Probably in an inauspicious manner and a dirty tone of voice t'boot. The point is, I saw these two girls, they were at the hockey game together, two buddies. "That's hot enough for me," I remember thinking. This did not stop me from turning to Jeff and saying something uncouth loud enough for everyone to hear. In fact, as it was coming out, I felt almost smug and a little proud. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| I'm nearly out of money, out of clean t-shirts and socks. We'll have to head back soon.
I might be going through a sort of small life crisis, what could I call it? I see babies and my friends getting married and these things touch me in some way, whereas five years ago I'd turn the cheek. These things strike me, and I don't think one way or t'other, but they still strike me. They scare me. I'm at a strange point in my life, there are no ties to me. I'm free in many ways, but still deeply afraid and excited about what happens next.
These terrific impalpable moments shape who I am: I attribute a lot of the feelings I have to my genetics and my gender. I'm not the most open person I know, but it's part of being a man (and maybe the son of a man). As a man, I feel wretched and weak and holy and superstrong all at once. A close friend said, "Well, your life, our lives, are part of an exciting time in history. A good time to be a young man in the company of men (not in a gay way)." I gave this some thought, and though it comforts me, I think it's true about anyone. Well, not anyone, but anyone worth a damn. I'm worth a damn. I've forgotten this, and I've only just been reminded, but I'm destined for something great. Any hints? | | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| | All Michael needs is someone to remove the dead insect pieces from his mac & cheese powder with a chopstick, the tip of a knife, or whatever's at hand, really. His every third fantasy does not involve doggy style or even the reverse cowgirl, but this, a woman who will not make him uncomfortable in the kitchen, or a woman who will lay on him just right during any John Goodman film, or a woman who does not have a live-in boyfriend. He thinks about how a number of his more recent relationships with the fairest sex have been doomed at the start, beknownst (or un) to him, and he catches a glimpse of his own death. He is not surrounded by loved ones, but by shoes and coats. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| | I feel like I've aged five years in one. Getting older terrifies me beyond words. Got hung up on that today and so I cleaned out my closet, which made me feel better, it was theraputic, I think is the word. Punk rock helps, try it gramps. The problem is that it makes me want to destroy all my shit. Kick through the windows in my room, tear down all my posters, run at top speed in any direction. There's restlessness, hopelessness, fatigue, impending disaster, death. I know, I know, I know things could be worse (I say to myself again and again), for I could be a mother whose young son has been kidnapped. This makes me want to run even faster, fly past the speed of sound like a drunken Superman. What gives, friends and motherfuckers? | | comments: 12 comments or Leave a comment |
| Today I ran into Jill, a friend from a long, long time ago. Simply seeing her stirred the sort of nostalgia I long for; memories of things that I've never done, places I've never lived, relationships I've never nurtured and never neglected, like the arcs of a story someone has written for television.
She almost left before I had the chance. I said her name loud enough for her to hear and I could tell she didn't recognize me. I said, "I thought so, I'm Michael, from -" and she said, "Nitschky?!" and then we shook hands and hugged.
I gave her my phone number (schlock) and my email address. I can only hope she writes so that we can catch up; she mentioned that she had "a ton of stories to tell" me. I love her and I miss her. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| | Today I walked over two miles. People in the streets make me want to strap melee weapons to my back. Children diving across my path, screaming in my ear, old men throwing shit on the ground, belching and flatulating, sweating and fouling up the air, hundreds of fully pregnant women stinking with sour perfume and chattering about wicker and stained glass. In fact, the contempt I hold for my fellow man only grows with each passing day. I'm training to focus it into a fine beam capable sending objects back in time. I can't quite get it right, though. The closest I can get is ejaculating prematurely or shrinking my own children. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| Rita came to the Vault last night and we spoke awkwardly for a while. The weather has been warm, and she noted that living in a small house with her family and several pets can be uncomfortable. She mentioned her tarantula, which molts from time to time. She said he lays on his back when he does it, legs stretched upward, and slithers out of his own hairy exoskeleton. I imagine this to be instantaneous, with a puff of smoke.
Before I left for home, though, she stopped me and we talked a little bit more about 'hanging around the house' and 'watching movies'. I gave her my phone number. | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| I love tequila.
All the things throughout the day that tend to agitate: the weather, the television, the money, the love, the lawn - they all melt away with Sauza and lime. Something comes over me. I get the same feeling sometimes when I'm sober, only not as often. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| The sun is strong this morning!
She brought me ice water in a large pink cup, and I felt love for her as one does who has been drinking heavily the night before, and the alcohol is still in my veins, and my eyes see people and objects as brighter than they actually are, and my ears can hear with no real interference, the drums and tiny bones able to withstand incredible volume (despite a crippling headache), and all music is perfect this time of
the dry and glaring morning. My goodwill is on the up and up.
I looked out her window and I saw men on bikes and blowing newspapers and dogs in sweaters. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| I haven't spoken with Jane all that much lately, and it saddens me. These relationships, especially the ones I go on and on about preserving and keeping strong, are more often than not simply neglected. I need to pay the fucking people bill. I have trouble with it, or any bill for that matter, and since I've been canned I've become more or less a total recluse.
Which brings me to a bit of good news: Deadboy is now a level 20 black mage, level 10 white mage. It's really something, and soon I'll be able to leave the treacherous Valkurm Dunes to head for bigger and better things, perhaps the Grand Duchy of Jeuno.
Sometimes it's like a knife in my side, there's a pain, when I think of Jane. It's a hopeless feeling. My twisted logic, my gorilla math tells me that calling would make things worse in the long run. I'm a foolish boy, but I think it's what makes me so attractive. | | comments: 2 comments or Leave a comment |
| all in all today has been a very good day (so far):
1: i got fired.
2: the garbage disposal is working again.
3: i leveled up in final fantasy XI (it's a big deal). | | comments: 10 comments or Leave a comment |
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mklptrk's journal
