The boredness that I am feeling might be what is leading me most into the thoughts of suicide. The boredness and the feelings of loneliness. I know that there are people all around me, in real life and online, but there is still a disconnect that I feel from them. The true life worth living still stuck inside of me.
I’ve got to keep trying to be honest with myself. Sometimes even when I am, thinking back on it a second later it feels as if I didn’t go deep enough truthful with myself – like I was putting on a facade, artifice; trying to create something clever, creative, uber genuine, productive.
The music is okay tonight. The images on tumblr inspiring. Karta has begun sending out a tiny letter. Galaxim has been responding to my Medium posts and over email. I haven’t heard from Changeling all day but I haven’t said hello to her either. Piper asked me what my favorite meme was. I told her that I don’t think I have one. The schmig has been clogged regardless the atomizer that we put in it, regardless the fact that I cleaned all of them in a bowl of hot water. Nobody is talking on Telegram. More chatrooms have been created. The enemies are present yet still distant. Crabs in a barrel, grabbing at all the fun.
I have to go to work tomorrow. It is my method for shoveling food into my life. Thank goodness for the bagel shop and the one employee there who thanklessly makes our sandwiches for us without tips. Thank goodness for the Key Foods. Thank goodness for Chaturbate. Thank goodness for this trashy corner in the kitchen that I can masturbate as loudly as I want into. It is right behind Musette’s sleeping head but separated by a wall. A metaphor for this online literary life I’m living.
I wish Facebook would stop telling me that I have more friends than I think I do. I probably have less honestly. Like some of these people online whom I think are my friends talking negatively about me behind my back in public right in front of my ever present eyeballs.
I have my computer sitting on the television table that is in the corner of the kitchen where we stash the trash. There is a radiator to my right. I am going to miss the radiators once I leave New York even though the ones in our place hardly even work. And the wooden floors. I will miss those too, but I’m sure that my neighbors beneath me won’t miss the sound of Carlton’s claws scraping around on them.
My nose is running. The apartment smells like burgers. We didn’t cook any. We had the bagel sandwiches that I talked about earlier for dinner and a plate of six Nestle cookies. I cooked the cookies longer than the ones I cooked last night. As a result they were less raw but the bottoms were a little burnt. I didn’t get sick last night, and the cookies were good, but eating raw cookies is not a risk that I really want to play around with.
I did a spray and wipe of this corner before I started writing in it but I don’t know if it was enough. I’m just trying to get outside of Musette’s earshot. Get some thoughts out before I go to sleep. This corner has a good feel to it but it’s hard to combat the spirit of the trash that still lingers. It helps not having to try and worry about the noise that I’m making. I can masturbate in peace. Used to be that we didn’t have these drapes over the window. I’m sure the retarded neighbor across the way has seen both my dick and my orgasm face back during the short time that I used to write in this corner before it became overwhelmed with trash. Maybe if I can keep this habit up of writing here at night it will motivate me to take the trash out on a more regular schedule. Currentivism at work right there.
Hours slip out of and back into the television. The Man in the High Castle still hasn’t finished The X-Files, but the dog needs food.
So we get dressed and I take the dog out, looking at New York with refreshed eyes and a new overlay of imagination. America still standing, the home of the free and brave. No fascist touch ups. No brown coats. Brooklyn black is the art scene here. Most of the Japanese in California are Hawaiian. No New Berlin. No neutral zones. No Marshall looking for me for the man I once was or the man my identity card says that I am.
And on the way home we get bagel sandwiches from the bagel shop that I’ve written about before. Such a crazy place. Always just the one guy with an incredible wait. He deserves good tips but when I try to add one to my receipt he tells me that they don’t do that there.
I get in the shower with Musette which causes me to remove my DECA shirt finally and throw it to the ground along with my crotch rotted boxer briefs. She asks me if I am going to wash my hair today. I wasn’t planning on it.
I am, she says.
So I decide to too.
I wake up wearing the same orange DECA shirt that I’ve been wearing for the last few days. I don’t even take it off when I go to sleep anymore for fear of the weird feeling the bare mattress has against my skin. My throat is sore. There is a hole in the comforter that I accidentally tore into it. I think the goose feathers are being sucked in with my snores. I am becoming stuffed myself.
Musette is asking me about the wifi password. The dog is sitting by the door. Responsibility abounding, dunking my head out of dream.
I don’t know is all I can think to say.
But there is a restaurant that I have been wanting to go to for a long time. It’s called Five Leaves. It’s only open until three.
I tell her that’s fine, and stand up, taking the dog out where he poops two solid and unbloodied piles right on the sidewalk.
So at least there’s that.
Life for me is existing so much online. I am a virtual entity on the brink of manhood. Children being formed in the spirit world. It is scary. People introducing themselves for the first time after so many chatroom years, now in this candy shop on the bay of tears, pouring themselves into my reflecting pool fears. Death’s delight in the rejecting passage, I watch and repeat lines I’ve said before. Being a character more than a friend. An enemy instead of a frenemy. A misunderstood Faery going all out all over.
It’s at this point that I’m stopped by a bum asking for a dollar.
I’ve got nothing, I say. Nothing but my words. My presence.
He walks on, unsatisfied.
The currentivist movement is not focusing on one person. You know when I say this that I’m talking about myself. The true surfer follows the wave. This here you could say is just me trawlin with a big ol’ net. Keeping track of what’s happening, trying things on for size. But you, if you so choose the task, you’ve got to know that it’s the people that make up the social network, they’re what helps you keep line in the book, the book that has liquified and spilled out into so many multimedia channels.
We’ve all got responsibilities. Certain talents that we bring to the field. I honor and cherish you. You’re what really keeps this story going, next to me, whom I just love so much, probably most of all, while hating myself at the same time, my bad back and crooked neck and stupid looks that I give the camera more often than not. But can’t we all give a big ol’ round of applause to my dog who laid down some really nice and solid dung berries? Does this mean that we can move on from this ulcerating dread? Into tomorrow which is a day off for both Musette and me. As far as I know we don’t have any plans. And we don’t got no money. No K would like us to go to Mr. Dumpling in Saint Mark’s place, but like I said, we don’t got no money. If I had the money I’d go there every day, for at least a year maybe less. Come on, you’ve got to believe me. I don’t mean to leave you hanging. I know that I can be quite unreliable and quite a wildcard, but at heart I’m a good guy. That’s what makes me such a great antihero, that and my dry humor and self-centered, masturbatory pleasures.
Let us please not forget that we’re trying to get back to basics. I’m a foetal man on the verge of thirty. I have tried many things and failed yet there have been certain methods that I have quite enjoyed. I’m trying to combine these positives in such a way that enriches all of our lives. We’ve only got so much time. I’m only here in New York for so much longer. Has it butchered me? Have I done any butchering myself? I mean, I’ve had visions. Little Sailors dangling from the balcony beams of my retarded neighbor’s fire escape, but what are visions compared to cold hard reality?
These Michelin stars. What are they to me? How have I advanced my own career, this quest that we all are on. Well, I can say that I’ve grown my beard longer, but I don’t know how much longer it’s going to get if I keep pulling the whiskers out of it. Perhaps tomorrow I will shave. Probably not.