I know you’ve all been completely dazzled by my mastery of the English language but, believe it or not, I only started this blog about a month and a half ago. This is a drop in the bucket, compared to so many people who’ve been doing this forever and ever. Sometimes I doubt my commitment to Sparkle Motion, and I have a funny feeling I won’t do this for very much longer. My first 3 weeks brought us about 50 posts, while my last 3 weeks have only seen about 15 or 20 posts. I do think there’s a slim chance that I’ve either become more picky about topics I… nevermind. Whatever.
I hate words though, I do. I so much prefer faces or musical notes. So what I’m saying is that I’m having a hard time writing. My life has gotten a little more boring and ordinary of late, and I don’t want to be one of those who gives their funny take on the daily ins-and-outs of whatever. But I am not ready to quit yet. So I’m thinking maybe I’ll start using this thing as a place to put stories from my life. I used to be a bit more exciting and strange than I am nowadays. So yes, maybe that’s a good idea.
Also, something about blogging: Nobody reads your shit unless you spend way too much time reading others. Or atleast until you are a famous blogger with thousands of daily readers. And I don’t really have the time or energy lately to spend an hour a day reading everyone else. Also, I’m not smart enough to get myself a “blog reader” thing, even though I do enjoy organization and compartmentalization of things. But yeah. No fucking energy for any of that.
Lately, in my time off, I just read and smoke cigarettes and listen to music. A month ago, I had way more free time. God. Adulthood strikes again! I am fairly happy though, the last week or two. Which is new. I haven’t been very happy in a couple years now.
ANYWAY. As life throws its curveballs, I always adapt. And so will my blog, naturally. So. When I can’t think of anything else, I will just tell the stories that made me who I am. And I’m going to hide my stats-counter thing, because I really need to stop thinking about who’s reading. If I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure I started this blog because I wanted to write; not because I wanted people to read my writing. So. Fuck it, goddamn it. I just need to write again, for myself. So yes. A story.
One time, when I was probably 13, I did bad things to my old friend, Dave. We were hanging out on a mountain/hill thing by the beach. There were trees and there was gravelly dirt. Lennon was there. Lennon liked Dave but we all sorta made fun of him because he was a very very skinny ginger kid and he always looked like a praying mantis when he ate food. This one day at the beach though, we had him pinned down up in the hill and we started putting rocks and dirt in his mouth. He was angry, but he was too weak to get up. It was sort of hilarious though. But looking back, I feel pretty bad about it. Dave lived. He went on to be my pot dealer when I briefly lived back in NY when I was 23. He used to leave it in the mailbox in the evenings, and I’d swing by after work to take the weed and put some money in the box. I felt like a secret agent. And then I went to get baked. Every night at 10:30.
Also, three times, we made my other friend drink piss. Not just piss, but communal piss. We’d get him VERY stoned until he inevitably passed out somewhere, and then we’d find a glass and put a bunch of iced tea mix in. And then we’d all have a turn with the glass, just a few drops each, but enough for a few of us to fill the thing. We’d wake him up and say, “Tony, you don’t look too good man. Do want a drink or something? Some iced tea maybe?” Of course he’d always mutter a positive response, and he’d always start gulping before his taste-buds had time to register what was happening. And so there was always that golden moment on his face that psychically communicated that, “Whoa, wait. What’s going on? Salty… Shit. Wait. This is piss! And now this is humiliation. Everyone will be laughing in a minute but I will be dryheaving my guts up for an hour until I expel all of this urine from my esophagus. Fucking assholes. Fucking bastards!” This was always the greatest facial expression any of us had ever seen. That’s why we made him drink piss one-two-three times. And it was totally worth it. But don’t worry, Tony is still alive too. I got him a job as a stockbroker when we were about 19. I think he made a lot of money and did a lot of cocaine for years, while I made no money because stockbroking wasn’t for me afterall, but he seems to have enjoyed himself.
Yep. Stories of my life. Fucking stupid. But it feels good to think of these things.
And now you know a sliver of the reasons I travel with a heavy load of guilt on my back. The reason I don’t kill ants any more is because I made Dave eat rocks. And the reason I help women carry their baby strollers onto the bus is because I made Tony drink piss.
Karmas is funny. And yes. If blogging wasn’t weird before I got here, it sure is weird now.