Sauntering outside to get fucked up was the only thing I had done so far today with real enthusiasm. Brushing my teeth and changing my underwear, all but showering had card charged its way the fuck out of my daily ritual.

The card. Charging off. In the literal financial sense of the word I had experienced it already one time before - when you make mistakes they’ll be there for you but it’s only in there briefly, then the piper demands payment and pop the pussy on the corner if you want to survive another month of rent.

The vehicle was an all blue, miscellaneous sport model ford. The pasty white skin of the smiling driver who had waited a 5-10 minute interval for me smiled more than his mouth did in its original ride of his meat suit.

Taught and wrinkled at the same time

in a disarming way.

I didn’t think of any of these observations as thought process but now that I am fresh in mind and memory I remember the specifics - like how I couldn’t care less about anything except arriving at that shit hole trailer to buy some narcotics.

The night cut into the vehicle in darkening shades of icey black that hung heavy in the back seat of the vehicle tearing across creation into deeper and deeper still vegetation lined roads - bordered by wire fences and ditches on either side it always seemed like a perilous journey driving these roads of pedestrian impasse in Texas.

We talked as the vehicle sped. The closer we got the more I said and spewed from my mouth. Not many people you can be brutally honest with in life. I had a habit of being brutally honest anyways.

Late at night in the back country of nowhere we meandered to a stop and then a left turn into a trailer park. I let him know how to get out of there should any problems arise and then asked if he didn’t mind the wait that was scheduled. He didn’t.

Out of the vehicle I went and into tiny trailer I walked, to find the woman I had come to buy drugs from looking at me in a way I couldn’t really figure out until the very last second with her allusion to sexual innuendo and a half hearted attempt at a come on.

I made my way to the door and backed away after I got my hands on what I needed and not in her. I typically actually regret this moment and the lack of initiative to no holds barred take a risk to expand my horizons but that doesn’t really work out a lot of the time and I’d already risked quite a bit this evening and at that point in the circumstances I had come out on top.

I laughed as I recounted to my uber driver how she had tried to have sex with me, and we sped out of the trailer park - looping around the encampment until we reached the exit again.

I was elated and had no problem shooting every chatter box shit I had at this point, and most of it was probably lost on me and him. We got back - and I got his card and I got high, then went to California.

Anger doesn't exist without nostalgia.

I'm angry, that I'm not there anymore. I'm angry at what you did. I'm angry at what I did. I'm nostalgic for the pain I experienced, and caused. I'm nostalgic for the good times that weren't good at all.

Sometimes we go back and forth between euphoric recall and nostalgic anger. They are the same. They don't differentiate. So why should we?

Hard to find the words to describe how life's tribulations degradingly betray us. Fight rather than make peace. Speaking, rather than doing. Exclusive destruction feels good, construction of myself only does for a while.

Life goes backwards, forwards, right and center. Non-linear in the horrifically grotesque image of realism, not a potpourri smelling hippy at his 15th festival this year talking about time.

Staying in one place is too much for me to bear as I sweat beads of boredom. A few years makes the last six months a place of monotonous cocksuckery and melancholy suicidal ideation that brings me right back to the places and people and things which cause my beads to turn to stress and frustration and fear.

Currently I am obsessed with the concept of duality, because there is so much of it in my own life.

I have very little insight into other people's lives since my own is all consuming like a raging inferno at a Texas fraternity's bonfire.

I like my writing and I don't. Others like it, I wonder if they're lying to appease and placate. Adjectives? TOO MANY I suppose. Fuck you that is how I write you can throw this fucking book in the nearest garbage bin, and then jump on in.

Time spent appeasing people is time spent by the weak and miserable. I don't even know you. You're just dumb enough to buy my book. Be strong and miserable. Be dangerous and harmless. Be an asshole and a saint.

Be confident and vulnerably insecure to the point you leave yourself open to immense pain and suffering that permeates a majority of your memories and feelings towards on a daily basis until you are so fucking dead inside that you don't want to kill yourself anymore unless it would make you feel alive and not completely gone as your pride consumes you, what you once felt you can't even feel in your chest.

It's you.

The sun rises over Baltimore, and I feel like a sanctimonious prick for writing that line. I've been up all night, to no good. Staying in a room for the night I surely cannot afford due to the shit head landlord of the previous room I had rented being a abhorrent bitch.

That shit be the title of my book. I think, at least. I think a lot of things, and most of them end me up in situations like these.

Sometimes they take me down the path of fortune and success but save for a few moments in my life - maybe more than a few but less than many. Many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. I tell myself that, at least.

I tell myself a lot of things that scare me into seeking escapist oblivion like alert awareness of my surroundings. A brightening and tweaking of my perception through women, through drugs and alcohol, through adrenaline or war.

Apparently the fear I feel when I think the doomsday scenario possibilities up in my head that become more realistic every day are the only ones I give value to, therefore leading to the inching further of my own destruction.

They're all one and the same, then again, many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. Things that I tell myself are like a shipwrecked man talking to a effigy of his best friend.

Maybe that's true for all of us, but seemingly not all of us. Since the suited men that walk and drive and take the train down the side walk, street, and railways around here always seem to be put together.

I used to be one of them, but never for very long. I've been one in spurts and binges of functionality that always lead me back to where I am right now.

Winning the genetic lottery means exactly jack shit if you can't make use of in life. Not with the self destructive streak that cuts like a bowie knife on a hot day through a stick of butter into everything you try to accomplish, god forbid you accomplish it.

I sometimes really can't believe anyone would fictionalize and entertain with the lifestyle that fucks up everything in mine. The romanticized warrior alcoholic poet who completely tornadoes and nukes everything in his life including the food he eats and the women he fucks.

I had cut off my hair to get back to my high and fucked days of yesteryear. Mistake. Of course. Oh well. Most of the space on my white board has run out, better get a chalk board to fit this one in because god knows the shit is running into the hundreds between women, wars, and wickedness.

Maybe we should spend more time on others.

Less on ourselves and being alone like a cliche comedy character in a hood movie who “don’t need no man” — when it contributes to premature mortality rates and depression.

Mental disorders such as psychosis and depression — acute physical as well as chronic illness.

Maybe if we stood for each other more than our own individualistic pride? We would be just fine.

To say a human beings development depends on himself is to deny the entire development and sustaining endurance of the human race.

We. Are. Social. Creatures. We. Work. In. Groups. Best.

Whether that is a family a couple or a friend.

Why we choose to set our lives to hard mode when shit could be easy beginner I will never know but the modern world is the most fucked up thing I have ever seen.

So modern day individualism of the likes never seen before 1978 onwards is the answer?

Then we are all doomed.

When denying the base nature of human beings biologically, neurologically and spiritually becomes norm, we become manic depressive dysfunctional despots who pump bullets into strangers.

Intravenous drugs in our arms and dysfunctionally fucked up thoughts in our heads.

we raise fucked up kids. We look the other way when fucked up things happen.

So they continue to happen.

Continuing always, as long as we continue believing in human weakness and delusional idiocy as truths and not falsehoods.

Some will suffer more than others, and the ones who suffer less will pity the ones who suffer more but never help.

Hard times need soft edges, when the emphasis becomes individuality and egoism, we all die.

Those that suffer less will eventually suffer the most, because they thought they suffered least in hopes of self identity and pride preservation.

So what’s worked for 5,000 years of human history is going to change all of a sudden because now we all think that we are super hero’s not human beings?

I can’t wait to see what happens next.

I just saw a family meeting up with their dad.

His dad and a friend. They had been waiting on him for a bit, his wife was there and attentive.

His kids were there and attentive and excited to see him.

I just got off the train with nobody to meet me. Multiples that won’t respond to me or when they do it’s full of malice. Hatred. Or feigned indifference, worse feigned care. Canned care compassion.

Canned like a can of Coke that you pick up at a corner bodega, and find to be flat.

Canned like a can of Pepsi that’s been there for 2 years and never replaced. It’s half full, or half empty. Depending upon which side you’re sitting on. Depending on which side you grab and which side you don’t.

It’s carbonated or it’s flat. Depending on what kind of drink you like,

Carbonation or not.

But I’m missing a soda.

I've always felt weird walking into bars. I've always felt weird doing something I'm working on for too long, because I feel like if I achieve any measure of success in it that should be the stopping point lest I cannot maintain the peak I've come to. Better to quit on a high note right?

That's what I always do and so I walk into a bar. I walk into a bar and immediately feel uncomfortable if I'm not already drunk. The place people come to die slowly and fry mozzarella sticks fast to die even more quickly. I plop down on a bar stool and the bartender eventually makes their way around to me and asks me what I would like to drink. I order a beer, or a mixed drink. My most common concoction being a beer and a shot of vodka or three.

I've never been someone who resigned themselves to a fruitless life but it feels like less and less fruit is in my future. Very little in my past. In terms of the orchard keeper I have very little more than a barren wasteland like a orange farmer who thought it would be a great idea to plant in South Dakota at the turn of the century. Encountering a dust bowl the second seeds were planted.

It was better than before, better than when I felt like for the rest of my life I'd be stuck in my rack shivering and writhing in pain from alcohol withdrawal. It was better when I walked into the bar that I could discount every aspiration and ambition I once had within those four walls that made me as happy as can be but destroyed me. The bartender greeted me with a smile. Pretended I was personable. Pretended that I was meant to be there. Checked off every box that was necessary to keep me there on some misguided, unfounded goal to fuck her. Bartenders know exactly what they're doing.

It was dark, dank, and private. The only light I saw was from the glint of the black out blinds that covered every window. The ring of the blackjack machine was as artificial as everyone else's plastered drunk smile that made me nauseated and cajoling at the same time. I felt extra insecure on top of what I typically am insecure about due to the lack of teeth incurred by the bottle which had introduced itself to my face.

Constant stimulants, and constant depressive substances.

Duality exists in all facets of life I guess. Stimulation was a must and a straight life of rules and laws and responsibilities has almost always been something I'm essentially incapable of.

Jobs, careers, relationships and family affairs have always been a second thought after the inevitable pursuit of escape in a faraway town or city or country with cheap liquor and low hanging fruit like women I could easily acquire.

I arrived in the Caribbean just a few days ago and I already had baby mama drama without the baby.

Enough drama to last a reality TV star five seasons of shit show suck.

Everywhere I go I expect things to be different until they become the same. Everywhere I go and everything I do as a form of escapism turns into the worst decision while simultaneously being the best damn decision of my entire littoral life.

Story of my life, trying to mold-make a psychiatric condition into a wife. The walking borderline personality disorder that I had quickly proceeded to fall in love with was currently throwing every dish in my pantry out of a window onto the street while I could hear the neighborhood constituency vocalizing/ the shit out of their disapproval for my shenanigan like love interest gone wrong.

My newest heart throb from the depths of hell was drunk. She teetered, tottered, and fell out the window with my printer as she tried to throw it of a window.

She didn't know that the cord had wrapped itself most of the way around her leg and arm. Nothing went in slow motion like most claim it to be in these circumstances. She fell quick, she hit the gravel pavement hard.

Blood immediately, broken snaps that audiophile's would pay big bucks for echoed in the thick humidity filled night.

She had been drunk in a ethereal way, trans-dimension like intoxication. She screamed as she fell. As my mind always does, I didn't feel anything at that moment. I went completely television static like numb.

Second story falls don't normally kill people. Maiming, while unpleasant and extraordinarily inconvenient is far preferable to death. That wasn't her story, nor what I live with regarding her death. Death has been all around since the very beginning, and seems to always be a constant visitor to a shitty asshole crust a fault.

She died, and our story began. Her head had become a concave hellscape on a cobble stone road on a hot and putrid shithole in a Caribbean humidity dense as the driven snow in Colorado.

People crowded around, and in familiar Caribbean like lateness the ambulance waited a solid few hours to come scrape her corpse from the cobble stones that had likely seen a lot of death over the years from different kinds of people, persons, and persuasions.

I think I booked a ticket the second her ticket was punched. I honestly did not experience much more emotion than a tinge of panic once I realized that the fall she experienced might render her a vegetable and not a non-issue. I flew out of the local regional airport to my next port of call and smiled as I sipped my gin and tonic in a first class seat I had scammed my way into. This might sound harsh, and if it does, put this book down pussy. It's not for you.