All the unborn chicken voices in my head.

I’m here to get drunk. Posted up at a bar called The Hilt. Immediately upon walking in, a girl says to the bartender, while looking in my direction, “Well, how about I buy his drink?” I thought, this is going to be a good day. The barmaid declines, hag that she is, shatters my dream of free booze. No idea what happened or why. Still convinced this could be a great day. A great day after a series of bad ones.
Nothing bad can come from getting shitty drunk before 5pm. It’s always a great idea. I’ve also decided that it might be time to broaden my horizons and start drinking when I’m in a bad mood. I’ve never done much of that; not since high school days, those olden times of constant woe. If I wasn’t going to drink through my bad moods at that stage of my life, I’d never have drank at all.
But fuck it. I’m here. I’m 29. I have money to burn. Lie. That was a lie. I’m a poor fucker. But. Today, I am going to be whatever I want to be. Which, so far, is drunk. Started with a pint of Rainier and a glass of Jim Beam, blatantly ignoring the huger pangs in my empty belly. So far, so good.
This place needs a fucking jukebox. A free one, even. I may need to migrate to a less cozy bar, though, to find the elusive free jukebox. I just like this place, The Hilt, because it’s empty and a little bit cramped and cave-like. But the music is definitely a problem. Oh shit. Not anymore!!
See? Another indication that I am the God of my own private universe: I was JUST thinking about my craving for Lou Reed’s voice, and then appears on the speakers like a beacon of hope, The Velvet Underground song, Rock ‘n’ Roll. My favorite bad-time song of all time.
I want to fuck something today. Something pretty. With a big ass. Never know if or when that might happen. But the pain, the week I was complaining about, is mostly due to lady problems. I am basically retarded: always falling head over heels for a girl who wants to destroy me. Or I do the opposite, which is easier: falling slightly head over heels for a girl that I will eventually go on to destroy. This time, sadly, it was the former, and not the latter.
The sound of a group of people laughing makes me want to be sick. Only sometimes. Like my walk home from work the last few nights. Sweaty, smelly, physically exhausted, emotionally drained and battered. I walk down the side street, parallel to Broadway, walking a block behind the bars. The laughing girls. Why are they laughing? Life is painful. I assume they laugh because they’re too stupid to find within themselves the urge to cry. I have the urge to cry, vomit, murder, all of it. That’s my week. There’s a good chance that that was last week, too.
The only thing getting me through right now (besides that big thing I’m choosing to discount, that always keeps me floating and somewhat grateful and contented) is the knowledge that I actually have a few friends that love me, friends that I love back. Well, no. I mean, I guess. Truth is, I’ve probably always known that I’m going to be alright. I’ve been determined, if only subconsciously, to be better than my parents. Which means I have to live til age 60, stay out of jail, avoid having children, keep my addictions in check, and figure out a way not to be so fucking dramatically sad. I’m on track.
Turning 30 in 73 days. Thirty years old. That’s an accomplishment for someone like me. Coulda been, woulda been, shoulda been dead… a long fucking time ago. God damn, I was born a heroin baby, yeah? And I’ve gone on to be 29 and 3/4 years old, and I am able to pay rent and the power bill and my phone bill and wha wha wha… even though I’d always rather do drugs and stay in and hate myself and hate you and hate everyone that may or may not be standing around wherever they’re standing. I’m fucking awesome for not being dead yet, is my point.
My other point is that I like Wilco, and I want to fuck something pretty. I want to fuck while listening to Wilco. No, no, it would be better if we listened to The Cars.

Do you guys miss my blogging? This little ditty proves that I’m CLEARLY a very talented writer, yes? I have a way with words.

Mmmm, what now? I want to write things that make people hate me, make them shake their head is disbelief and disgust. I want to write about how many times I’ve been told I have a perfect cock. I want to write about my fantasy, the one where I find a girl I like enough to eat her out on her period. I’ve never done this. But I want to. I want clumpy blood on my face, mixed with my saliva, and her pussy juices. I want that. I want you to know that I want that. And I want to be hated for all of this.
I would start going to therapy again, or something, but I’d prefer to keep indulging these parts of me. I want to fuck a cute bartender, all of my ex-girlfriend’s hipster coworkers, I want to fuck Lovely Rita Meter Maid, I want to get a blowjob from Paul McCartney’s corpse. I want to start a holy war. I suppose it would help if I believed in something, but I don’t really.
You know, that’s a thing… it’s pretty hard to be out here, completely without faith, nothing waiting for me. I don’t believe in any big blue tunnel into the afterlife; I don’t believe in much of anything.
The only two things that I really, truly believe in: We are all going to be okay; Donovan (Leitch) is probably the best songwriter in the history of pop music. So… I mean, when a person has a true, A TRUE understanding of these two things… there’s no thing too depressing, because everything is overcomable… able to be overcome.
White people with dreadlocks, and groups of females who piss/shit together… these people are not as lucky as I. These are the kinds of people milling around my bar right now. This is, by the way, my bar. I’ve only been here maybe 4 times now, including today, but it’s my favorite place in the neighborhood. Pool table, mostly good music, Big Buck Hunter, house-infused things (I had some crazy CRAZY gin-infused whiskey drink last time, delish) smoking areas, lots of chicks here. I suspect some of these chicks have vaginas that I’d like to get acquainted with. So, all in all, I’m mostly happy here.

I just had a ten minute conversation with a girl named Laurie, from Texas. She is 40, she just moved here. I asked her about Daniel Johnston. I wonder how much she will change while here in Portland. We have Bowie playing in the bar. Life is okay. We’re all okay. I have to stop writing. I have to go fuck something.

By the way. All of this is null and void if Carol would just admit to loving me. I would pretty much drop my entire everything for this one. But. I don’t think she wants me to love her. Or maybe she does. We’re not gonna really know the truth until she gets back from Thailand at the end of the month. But, eventually, we’re gonna find out something or other.

Anyway. Some ladies are gonna buy me a beer and join me at my table. So I have to go. But I do love this blog, I know I should use it some more, and I will, when I can. I love you. See you later.


About R. Spacely

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One Response to All the unborn chicken voices in my head.

  1. Beth says:

    “Do you guys miss my blogging? This little ditty proves that I’m CLEARLY a very talented writer, yes? I have a way with words.”

    This was around the point where I stopped being able to follow along with what was going on in your head. Or maybe it was when you started talking about eating a girl out on her period, either way you still can write despite months of inactivity on this blog, and I don’t believe I hate you for sharing such thoughts. Although I do believe you don’t truly want us (your readers, who have remained hopeful of a return) to hate you. Why would you?

    Anyways, hope you ended up having a good evening all those weeks ago. And that the following days, nights and weeks have been better.

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