And now, when the rain comes, we can be thankful.

My brain is changing. Feels like it’s been chained to a dungeon wall. I used to be able to just sit down at this battered keyboard and just write and write, no concerns no thoughts at all. People said nice things about my “stream of consciousness” writing, but it wasn’t that at all. I had a mind that could just talk for ever. And now, I don’t know. I am feeling like a dried up well. Or something.

I blame suburbia. When I started this blog thing, which was really just a temporary time-wasting experiment, I had only been back in suburbia for less than 3 months. I’m now looking back at over 7 months of barking dogs behind picket fences and people driving around with boats on trailers and the fucking ice cream man and working. Working is bad for creativity, I just know it’s killing me. And so I turned to alcohol, as a way to spice up the overly-boring life I’m now living. Worked for a while, but I just feel funny about all of that now. It’s not exciting to get black-out drunk unless I’m going out somewhere to deface public property and scream things at passing cars.

Something has to change. But. It’s not going to. Haha. Isn’t that fucked? I know things are terrible and boring and just… NOT ME, but I kind of just have to stare that concept in the eyes and deal with it.

If I were a stronger person, I’d figure out a way to make my spirit soar regardless of where I was located. But I’ve known for a long time that I am not that person. I am directly affected by my proximity to cities and buildings and murders and beautiful women that looked like they stepped out of the future and car crash casualties and overpriced food vendors on the corner. These things are the plutonium to my flux capacitor.

Portland. Portland. Yes. You know, fuck it, man. I’m doing a pretty good job of waiting. I almost had a nervous breakdown last month, but I pretty much stopped it altogether. I’m bored, and fatigued. But I am fucking hanging in there. I should give myself credit for that. I feel like a black gay jew in texas. Fish out of water, yes? But I’m doing a good job.

At work, everybody brags (this is Long Island) about how “crazy” they are. Because they throw shit and yell shit. I don’t think this is crazy, I think it’s childish. And I just stay out of it, and make no mention of the fact that I’ve actually been hospitalized for my crazy. Everybody at work talks about work or The Yankees or some fight that some douche got into over the weekend. I just smirk, and nod, and try to push the anger out of my mind. I do really want to open up on these people at work. I fantasize about taking the huge knives out of produce and just slicing the shit out of everyone’s stupid ugly faces. But nope. I’m good, man. I don’t pretend I’m one of them because… that would be going against my morals. But I am able to embellish my tolerance of them, let them all think I don’t hate them. But I do. No. Hate is a stupid word, I have no time for that. But these people hurt my soul, and I feel pity for them and I feel anger towards them. And their shitty music. God, they listen to all that emo bullshit Autumn to Ashes or whatever, fuck.

Anyway, this is why I generally can’t and don’t live on Long Island. It is a fucking vaccuous hole. This is where spirit and love and soul and space… this is where all of these beautiful things come to die. If I ever get AIDS or terminal brain cancer, this is where I’m coming to die. Well no. That would be stupid. I’d go to Santa Cruz and smoke mad weed on the beach. But maybe I’d try and take a trip to Long Island and just blow it all up with a massive pipe bomb. Do they make pipe bombs big enough for that? I might need a plan B.

Whatever. Let’s hope I don’t die yet. October. Portland. Hurry the fuck up and get here.

And you know what? I’m not saving any fucking money. I’m doing terribly at that. Because it’s expensive to be here. And I’m spending more and more money, just to keep me sane enough not to do something really terrible. So. October it is, for Portland, but I have no idea how I’ll be doing for money by then. If I can’t afford it, I’m going anyway. Because I have to. I really really really have to go before I do something stupid.

Oh god, and the bouncing! This fucking kid (my little cousin in the next room) won’t stop with the bed-bouncing. I hate it. I have to listen to loud music in my ears, just to cover up the bouncing. I just want some fucking silence. But no. This little shit is gonna be awake and bouncing and singing until 3 am. Because that’s every night.

I don’t like guns. Oh, but I sometimes wish I did.

Portland. October. Hurry. Safety.

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About R. Spacely

Bastard.
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