I would like to think there is more to a Saturday than sleeping ’til 1PM, drinking four cups of joe, book journaling, eating a grill cheese sandwich and then masturbating. But since that’s all I’ve done today, I pretty much think that’s all there is. I doubt I’ll even speak to one person today, only if the cashier makes small talk with me when I go to buy a sixer later today. Even then it will be awkward and forced. I’ll drink the beer and watch a Strokes concert on YouTube, only wishing I was cool like them with disposable money to burn.
Lina sent me a text as soon her plane landed in San Francisco, just to let me know she landed safely. It gave me a brief mental boost, like a rush of sugar to a diabetic. I was turned-on and a little flattered because you always see people on a plane pick up their phones as soon as the plane lands, hurriedly texting the people in their lives that are at the top of their minds. I was at the top of Lina’s, but I wondered why her husband wasn’t.
I always admire people who are unafraid to stare at their complexions in an airport bathroom mirror. I face the mirror but my eyes dart downward to stare at the dirty fixtures instead of the beaches of blochiness scattered about my aging face.
But then the gay flight attendant flirted with me, which made me feel less self-conscious. At least someone thought I was attractive. I never feel attractive when I travel.
Today I listened to The Strokes’ first record all morning before going to Beth’s for a blowjob. I told her I hadn’t masturbated in over a week and wouldn’t be offended if she didn’t swallow.
I saw a new escort today. Beth. She was mid-thirties with really smooth, taught, dewy skin on her face that was either from sun avoidance and a healthy skin care regimen or from a minor lift and tuck. I couldn’t tell. But she was thin, dark haired and attractive and happy to see me even though I was just there for a BNG (blow-and-go). Even with my years of escort experiences, it’s never lost on me . . . the weird eroticism of meeting someone and minutes later we’re both naked and kissing on a bed, or a couch, or one time on the carpeted floor of a walk-in closet.
Beth picked her head up and politely said she had to go spit. With a mouth full of my cum it sounded like, “Scuse-e, I’n goin to go spid this.” And then she hustled to the bathroom to spit and rinse. She returned with a warm, wet wash cloth and wiped down my cock while telling me she hopes I return. I don’t say anything, but I know I will.
I got home, lied on my bed and thought of the loving relationships I’ve been in with amazing girls. I’m used to the shame afterward. It doesn’t bother me as much anymore.
I’m lying on my living room floor with my head between my two stereo speakers. U2’s With or Without You is playing directly into my head . . . the simple but prominent bass line, that weird whistling noise . . . right into my head. It’s a really sad song, but it’s sad to me because it doesn’t make me think of anyone. There’s no one I miss right now and I wish there was. The majority of my adult life has been rejection and unrequited lust, but at the moment I have no one to want. And I woke up this morning and looked like shit. All oily and some white heads on my chin.
A depressed night. A sad and depressed night. God, if you were ever planning on making yourself known to me, please do it now. Take this heaviness and hopelessness away from me. I have been carrying this for way too long and I can’t do it anymore. You are supposed to hear my prayers. Please don’t make me think that all those years of attending Mass were pointless.
It was hard to hold back tears tonight. What’s the point of my life? I have been struggling with my belief in you lately – you haven’t been making it easy to believe in you. Please. Can you help me now? I am almost ready to give up on you. I have no desire to attend Mass anymore. No strength left to pray. I am afraid to use the gas money to drive to Mass.
I am just plain depressed, God. I have nothing left anymore. Please stop testing me like this. Please. Stop. I deserve better. I am always worried about money and everything is so far out of reach for me. One happy day. Just 24-hours of happiness would be a good start for me. I am empty inside, and it hurts me to think that a loving God would put me through all of this.
So I am begging you, God. Please help me. Take this depression from me. I still believe that you are stronger than my depression. I am not stronger than it. Please make tomorrow better. I don’t want to be sad and hopeless tomorrow. Give me a 24-hour break from it. I have no strength to ask or believe in big things now. Just 24-hours of not feeling miserable about my existence. You better act fast before you lose another one.
I saw Lina briefly today. She leaned in close to me to show me something on her phone and she smelled young, blonde, sunny and I wanted to touch the faded blue t-shirt she was wearing because it looked so soft and I wanted to sort of be it. She had just finished working out and I wanted to touch her flat stomach, sticky with perspiration. She leaned in close to me without hesitation and she was unaware that the closeness made me nervous and excited. Her youth is what I see so many older women trying to hold onto about themselves but failing so miserably and publicly.
I’m out of food and grocery money, so I’m drinking a two liter bottle of Pepsi because it will make me feel full. I have an apple for later.
All damn day today, I sat in that chair in my bedroom and read and drank half a pot of cheap Target brand coffee while Whiskeytown radio played on Spotify. I took a break twice to masturbate and then I crept onto Krissy’s Facebook page. She’s currently on a ski trip in Colorado with husband and two kids. I could never afford to have given her the kids or the ski trip, so I read in my Goodwill chair while she wintered in Colorado. And I didn’t speak to anyone today. Last week was days of sadness filling my head, not specific sad thoughts, just a fog of sadness between my ears without any explanation. I don’t know what is worse: the sadness in my head or depression, which is the absence of any feeling at all, even sadness. In my worst episodes of depression I wished for some sense of feeling, even sadness, but it was just indifference to any and all things.
That chair was for so long un-used in my apartment. It was a catch-all for my unopened mail and girls would put their coats on it, which I liked because it left the chair smelling like perfume. I had sex on it once years ago, but I decided to take advantage of the natural light in my bedroom so I moved it. I think I’ll get drunk in it next weekend.
Some co-workers passed on happy hour last Thursday, saying they were tired and they probably were. I needed some drinks more than anything at that moment, but I passed because three beers honestly meant I wouldn’t have money for lunch the next day. And driving home Friday, I hesitated . . . dreaded even, returning to the solitude and do-nothing-all day of my life for an entire weekend. I don’t even like the way I write sometimes, especially as of late. It’s un-directed and self-doubting, mirroring the thoughts in my head.
The winter wind-chills and skies the color of ash has me fearing depression again. Looking down into that pit with my feet hanging ten over the loose dirt edge. All the experience of having been down there before and all the knowledge of never wanting to return.
I struggle to make small talk with polite strangers. What seems natural to them feels labored and awkward for me. It probably comes across that way to them too. I can go an entire weekend without using my voice, and when the cashier at Walgreen’s tries to be nice to me I struggle to string two sentences together.
What I am proud of though, is that I can stand in line anywhere without thumbing my phone to pass the time. Other idiots bend their neck and look like a candy cane while they stare at old emails and text messages for the 30th time, trying to look like their lives are important at that moment. They’re not.
I woke briefly this morning around 9:20 and thought of the weekly staff meeting that was happening without me. It was elation and self-satisfaction that I had the discipline and eventual success to land a new job. No longer would I sit every Tuesday morning around an old, chipped conference room table with mis-matched, stained chairs next to people who I didn’t like. Not only that, but they agreed to keep me on the payroll for the rest of the month, thus financing my current stay-cation at home. I passed time today lying on the living room floor, head propped-up by blankets and pillows, reading while eating microwave popcorn. My buttery fingers turning each page.
In bed this morning, my mind quickly drifted to when I slept with Jessica last month. She mentioned the next time her roommate is out of town I can come over and we can take a bath in her claw-foot tub. I wanted to masturbate, but I turned over and returned to sleep.