19th Nervous Breakdown.

Here it comes.
-The Rolling Stones.

And the wreck of you.
-Soundgarden.

Love is gone away.
-The Violent Femmes.

So overwrought that I am scratching.
My nerves fuck me blind.Really.
Big florid welts the color of smoked ham.

I feel like I have insects all over me and my stomach is going insane and trying to digest itself. Oh! But Little Miss Marginal does not deal well with lack of control.
” God give me the power to accept what I cannot change” Fuck that in the ear. God? if you are real and you want me to believe then give me an assault rifle. Amen.

Knifeknifeknifeknifeknifeknife…………….

She’s so tall that she looks miss-shapen and somehow offensive. Bitter to the sensibility and the eye. Abundant in flesh and road damage. Far to many badly driven miles decreasing value and the chances of re- registration, let alone resale. The key sticks petty in the lock. The door squeals like a slow scalded cat. Interior smells of marshmallows, cloying- cute- kitty, and fluffy- bunny- finger-fuck sweetness over something darker, something decomposing.

(“I told you to throw that out weeks ago you fucking moron!”)

Her novelty value will always be at a premium. Autopsy on heels. Car crash. Dead baby. Disaster at the air show…
Hindenburg with a cunt (“OH the Humanity!”)

Roll up roll up

Oh but so different and flashy! Something that your friends will smile in amusement at when you pull up laughing.
She knows that you’re lying. She just got sick of rebuilding the bridges and patching the battlements.

She wants to kill you. She wants to be the last thing that you see.

What was that crap about the road of good intent blah blah blah littered by fools like me? Something along those lines anyway. So get this I am writing this because I don’t want to talk anymore. Oh boo hoo what a fucking wanker (*inhales cigar*“She writes a thing for people to read because she doesn’t wanna say anything???…. I TOLD you that this chick is a nut job” voce of doom internal.)

Why are all my internal voices from Chicago circa 1951?

Nut job is better than a hand job.I guess.

Reading Hustler cause Mr. Plow got a review in it and I am so numb that it’s sad. You could stick Jenna Fine in front of me right now and tops I would probably ask for a fucking hug.

I have busted my voice again. Problem being that its tuned super high and we were going to change it but….I get so fucking mad. I want her back. I want her to have it all at my side.
I am feeling like I want to slice my fingertips off and run…

Who the fuck has to temper themselves at all times? All I do is damage patrol. I exhaust myself, my few loved ones and just about every option that doest run away from me screaming. This is not what I thought my life would look like.

Been getting some sweet letters. Misguided but sweet. Thinking that this is a thing that I hide behind that inside is some sweet girl who just needs some one to set her straight and get her right. Oh lord, been here before and I doubt that it will ever stop. Yes there is more to me than what you are reading but not by much. Don’t kid yourself. I don’t. Not for a long time now.

What the fuck is that all about anyway? That
The right person will show up my tattoos will melt off and I will be miraculously transformed into some kind of stepford wife fuck hole?

Oh leave me alone.

Except for you Michelle. You I want back and by my side. People sweetly informed me that she was going to be the angel on my shoulder through all of this and so on. I don’t buy it. I close my eyes and see miles of sand and my spook radar is not picking up jack shit.
I see you in the hospital bed. I see a machine breathing for you and I am in mourning for the shit that we never got to have together.

I am so furious that I am numb.

We taped everything on a little Dictaphone. She left it running all the time. Before I left I was listening to some shit that we had been jamming….not to shabby but she forgot to turn it off and there was a whole conversation right there. I wish that I had more evidence like that. More proof that the ones that I loved and lost were real. You can forget what a voice sounds like…She was talking about Chris Cornell and how she was so happy that I was here. All the shit that we were going to do and now I feel cheated.

I can feel the carbon dying on my tongue, don’t want anyone near me. I am at battle stations with my corpse yet again but and too shell-shocked to be destructively and or even constructively angry.

I want out. It’s a battlefield internal. My big brother says, “You must almost be done!” Yeah except I feel like it’s doing me not the other way around. Everyday that I don’t hit my self imposed mark I come undone “Why do you tell so much?” muses Chicken looking over the cathedral of his interwoven fingers right into the dark heart of me “The only thing that I want people to know about me is nothing” he says.

Smart guy.

It would be a cop out to say that I don’t know “Why I do it” cause I do know, I have always known. This is what I am and what I do. And I am doing it badly.
And there I go thinking that I have made great strides. A- ha ha. I’m still a teenaged tool. I still focus on the shit that is not important, on the people that don’t even know who I am. This is almost enough to drive me back into meetings but I couldn’t think of much worse right now than sitting in a basement with a pack of addicts just like me mirroring it all back.
Can I go now?

Sleep is where it’s. Till the dreams start anyway…

I am a writer. An asshole musician. Look at me! God, I am making myself so ill right now, Dreaming of peeling myself with a blunt knife.

I cant stand myself tonight.
Enough,
M
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