I go to the
bookstore.
He says what do you do all
day. “What do you do all day?” I curl my fingers so that they touch the tip
of my thumb, and I move my hand up and down.
Why don’t you paint my store he says.
“Paint your store?” I’m not a
painter. I’m a landscaper, or a writer,
or something. All painters are
drunks. I am a drunk, but I haven’t had
a drink for over nine years. Nine years,
2 months, 23 days, thirteen hours . . . tick-tick-tick. Paint your store? Why don’t you? Why is somebody always trying to find
something for me to do, something that they think I should do, usually for
them? Why don’t I think about what other
people should do?
Because I
don’t care.
Because
they are already lost.
Because
we’re all going to die.
I go to the
bookstore. The first time in
months. Maybe years. I read more when I was drunk. Wrote more, too. Today, the TV terrorizes me. Traffic terrorizes me. The massive swarms of ugly us all over the
place terrorize me. ALL THE FUCKING COMMERCIALS
JUST YELL AND YELL AND SCREAM AND YELL!
Apparently we are in need of frenzy; apparently we must have constant
stimulation. Apparently lights quick bug
shout jump lights yell back forth up yell yell yell bang bang lights here now
quick here now now yell.
I don’t buy
it. Literally.
Take acid,
if that’s what you want, I mean it, take LSD you pussies, or shut the fuck
up. Take acid all the time, anytime,
every time, or shut up.
I go to the bookstore because I’ve
been given a gift certificate for my birthday.
51. Thank God. The older I get, the less I care about
things. The less I care about the
lies. It is all lies. Language is thought, language is love,
language is all we got. All we got is
lies. Not only is it impossible to tell
what the truth is anymore, it is impossible to tell what the language is. It is impossible to tell the truth with the
language. The lies are now built-in. They are standard equipment. No truth option available.
I go to the bookstore.
7/23/2002 – edit 04-14-08
7/23/2002 – edit 04-14-08
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