misterpoop

I havent showered in thirteen days and either no one has noticed or they just talk behind my back. I think its official: I am a dirt bag. Porno towel. That guy. The one with the stains on his pants. I have one shot of whiskey left. I have named it Molly and I am going to kill it. And it is going to kill me. Together we can assure our mutual destruction. Together we can make loam and star light in my bed sheets. I will drift off with my heart the size of a strawberry. My blueberry eyes will rot and slither to the back of my throat where sound is born in pink spurts of breath in the watery darkness. Old friends will come and visit. They will bring soap and candles and incense. They will ask me things like, so what are you working on these days? And I will say, a bottle of Tullamore Dew. Please forgive me but it was the cheeper brand. Not so cheep as Early Days but drinkable. Hell, any thing's drinkable if its liquid. Ive seen guys drink shoe polish. For less than a girl. But this is my nightmare. My daily trudge. Last night Hector spent four hours pulling the splinters from my back.

Since the the reelection Ive been making secret plans which I have since abandoned and... well lets face it; just plumb forgot, do to the plethora of illegal substances that have been coursing through my veins in the past two months. It seemed like a savage dream, a sort of stations of the cross, except that someone kept sticking their finger in my ass and wiggling it around. A very unsavory feeling. Please forgive. Its not my intention to wax homo or scatological, butt (Sic.) my life has been crass and worthless since the loss of America and now that Time Magazine seems fit to name Bush as Person of the Year Its clear to me that the sickness is systemic and therefore you should forgive me. I am a product of your hate and I have caused far less suffering than George W. Bush.

I have honored myself with the rubric, Un-person of the Year. One of the many disillusioned grunts who feel soiled by association to the idea that the Commander and Chief is indeed a person. If this is so, then indeed I am the animal I have become by choice, to distance, gutter rat, sidewalk bubble gum and your refuse. My plea is this. That these monsters cease. That they stop trying to turn my world into a fucking Create and Barrel commercial.

The upside to all of this is that it takes my mind off my broken heart and the girl who broke it. The down side is, is that Hectors sick of hearing about it and Caldwell, fearing for his reputation (which is laughable.) has refused to return my phone calls. Also Sleepy has disappeared. Gone west. Found some desert. Some sleep. Which is something I rarely get. I wish I could tear myself from this city and join him. As for me, Ive been clean now for two weeks. Nothing but caffeine and Noir films which has led me to my next adventure. One that Ill tell you all about on the cyber morrow. Until then live to the marrow and please dont feed the Politicians or the companys posing as such.

Peace.