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.
Lonely and bored. Got really fucked up last night and went home with this really fat girl. Most unattractive girl I’ve been with. I couldn’t get hard, though. One of the few times I was glad that I drank too much. She told me, “You can jack-off on me if you want,” but I declined the offer. I collapsed in drunken exhaustion and we both passed out. I woke a few hours later, called an Uber and sneaked out during her snoring. I had the Uber driver go through the McDonald’s drive through window, which I only remembered because the empty filet-o-fish box was the first thing I saw on my bedroom floor when I opened my crusty eyes this afternoon. I lay in bed replaying the night in my foggy, dehydrated head, trying to visualize a much different version of me . . . someone who would have left the bar after two beers, declined the tequila shots, didn’t almost puke in back of an Uber and instead came home to a wife. I’m not there yet.
Ever feel like you don’t matter? I’m invisible to Melissa. I’m forgettable to Meaghan. I’m alone every single holiday. The Melissa disaster last night sucked. She basically kicked me out of there. Fuck her. I don’t need the humiliation anymore.
But another sad holiday alone in this apartment. Holidays suck all alone. I think of all my friends with their wives, homes and decent lives. Getting drunk just gets me in trouble. Tawnel called me last night – what a fucking loser. She called my cell and home number, but didn’t leave a message. She put some pics on her FB page. Just disgusts me to think that I fucked that. I got Kira’s phone number last night. She has mine too. She’s a little big, but I would love to bang her for some reason. Maybe she’ll drunk dial me. I wouldn’t mind.
I’m making the choice not to suck at life anymore.
But this loneliness, and isolation, and the change of seasons, and the dust bunnies under the TV stand, and these eye glasses that keep sliding down my oily nose . . . all of it. It’s too much to take on my current heavy dose of boredom and empty checking account. I’ll drink this Sleepytime tea, maybe two cups, followed by a dose of Walgreen’s brand Nyquil because I stayed in bed ’til 2PM today. No reason to wake-up, which is why Lina would be such a welcome return to my life. She always smelled like fabric softener and her perspiration during sex smelled like stronger fabric softener.
I’ll turn the heat on before I go to bed and get the first whiff of warm for the year. That burnt smell spat out by a dormant furnace. Today was admittedly tough. Rarely do I admit to myself how depressing a few of the day’s hours have been. It used to be all days and all hours at its worst. I used to down Nyquil after a night of solitary drinking, the idea being that it would keep me asleep so I wouldn’t be bothered with the hassle of waking up intermittently to piss. I wet the bed once.
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.
I got a massage today at an AMP (Asian massage parlor). Some so-so attractive Chinese girl got on top of me in reverse cowgirl, so that her ass rested on my rib cage and she was facing my feet. She really jack-hammered away at my cock. She was stroking so hard and fast that I barely felt the orgasm. If you think post-orgasm talk with a stranger is awkward, try it with a language barrier while you’re attempting to put on your underwear in a dimly lit room with atmospheric massage music playing too loudly from an iPod speaker dock. From what I understood and heard, she said she would be working there until September when she goes back to China for a month. And I think she asked me to come back and see her, and then she hugged me. I handed her two $20 bills for the “extras.” I can still feel the baby oil on me.
I don’t feel like much of a writer and I haven’t in a long time. I don’t feel like much of anything to anyone either. I am much better these days at choosing my thoughts – recognizing the harmful ones and throwing them away before they take root, like a weed in concrete. I’ve been living on a credit card and a lot of fucking prayer lately. I put the last of my checking account in my gas tank, and now I’m running up my credit card balance ’til pay day. The real toll of all this is that it makes me feel so exhausted and worn down. To live a struggle like this all alone and have no one along for the ride. The driver seat of my car is worn, but the passenger seat is pristine. Being happy and exhausted would not be that bad, I imagine. Being exhausted and in love would not be that bad, I imagine.
I am thankful for what I do have, but I’ll be hungry at work tomorrow. I’ll smell other peoples’ lunches and see their carry-out sandwiches. They will seem like wealthy people to me just because of that. Yesterday, I crept around the office in my dirty pants hoping for some treats or sweets in the break room. There were none.
It’s the annual post that I know all of you wait an entire year for. Time to see who has spent the last year giving me day-boners at work and making lube and Kleenex steady purchases for my trips to Target. Competition was stiff (pun intended), and there were a few ladies on the bubble who failed to get the phone call informing them of this career-making honor. However, one woman stood erect (pun intended) above the rest and earned the honor as the sole inductee for 2016.
Tennis star, Eugenie Bouchard
(click images for larger view)
Not since Molson Golden has Canada exported anything this perfect. A glance at the pictures above and you know why Nike designs her tennis dresses with the male viewer in mind. And one look at those pictures almost makes me want to forgive Canada for hockey.