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The Unexpurgated Diary of R. Cody Taylor [entry #four]

What kind of secret feelings did I go through today? 

[it’s only 6:30Pm, is this how you will begin?]

People can’t stand much reality, especially my reality, or me. I hide away, isolate, head in a hole. 

Goal [4/23/2021]: I must put down every recurrent thought, everything, no matter what. This night, like every other, just write. 

Back to those feelings...He’s got the evening, 12 bar blues. He’s been terribly anxious since sometime around 8Am, when he woke up to go into work. His afternoon was a terrible bummer, and now he’s downright depressed. He should be writing, maybe he’s depressed because he’s been so unproductive and useless. All he’s done is smoke cigarettes and drink coffee, eat and masturbate. He no longer knows what to do, he’s bored and blue, sitting in a funk. [6:46Pm.]

[10:20Pm.]

My thoughts are concrete things left back in time...something like 16 minutes ago...How I so long to, as Ginsberg said, tip my mit...that’s why I write...perhaps these words are like going crazy...Did I just have a revelation? It’s doubtful. 

[10:26Pm.]

I feel so sick and unhappy. Act out. Think with trepidation, even nervously. It really doesn’t matter because I don’t really matter. No one cares about the thoughts of a Nobody who has the blues, the 65536 doldrums, ho-hum, hum-drum, banality of a boring, do-nothing, life in a nowhere town. And my leg’s cramped and I can’t think straight. I came to this page alone and with a burden on my back. I will remain alone for the rest of the night, and all of tomorrow. 

[10:30Pm.]

This poor and meager diary, these unexpurgated thoughts, which later will seem to be nothing, they're so much a part of my world, this seems to be sufficient, and okay, and besides, what else do I got to do? Not much, and mostly nothing important.

[10:36Pm.]

I hate fast cars...they’re so depressing, going round and round...or some such shit heard on my stereo. A Buzzcocks record on the player, I turn-up, tune-out, drop a load of bullshit on this page. I get no reply, don’t you see? No! No, no, No!

[10:39Pm.]

This might be a short night, early to bed and not much done with my day...running out of steam. Maybe I need some caffeine, I’m out, but could go buy some from the gas station down the road, go to Kum-N-Go.

[10:41Pm.]

Too High to Die: Meat Puppets. New record spinning. Able to explode! This is so bland and boring, so dismal and dull. Am I repeating myself from the other night? Feels as if I am. Road trips through open holes. Out rushes the night...lines on the radio. I got nothing tonight.

[10:45Pm.]

[guitar solo.] I think I’ll run off and get a caffeinated beverage. See if, when I come back home, I can remember, or think of, something to write about. Down the road we can see the electric chair...one more radio line. Never to be found. [guitar solo.]

[10:47Pm.]

I got nothing but time. Be back later. Sparks fly from my eyes. What? I exit through the front door and dash-off to my car, put it into gear and I’m gone. Be back later.

[11:06Pm.]

Been A Son was the song playing as I drove to Kum-N-Go in the pouring rain. Bought two cans [20oz.] of sugarfree Red Bull and a Java 300 Monster. I’d like to be awake, up until 2:13Am. What I want out of this is to get some of the shit loosened up in my head, kick out the jams and see what happens as the night progresses back into the AM hours. [sound of jangly guitars.]

[11:21Pm.]

This is a lie, only not a lie. By the time you read this I might die. Does that mean something? I pry open my brain and a sentence flies out...Something I wish was called poetry taking flight out of the hole in my head. Floats. 

[11:22Pm.]

When you turn your back, I pullout my flask, take a sip while you’re not looking. Everyone thinks we’re perfect, please don’t look through my curtains. You might see the real me...I sit in my recliner and pick my nose. Places! Places! You know what I am, and I want to call it poems. No! All I want to sound like is what I’m always becoming, a hackneyed writer of pathetic prose. I fool myself. And damn! If these walls could talk, what the hell would they have to say? All my dirty secrets, like the tiny size of my tiny dick. O! No! Shouldn’t have divulged that fact.

[11:28Pm.]

In South 65536 a man hangs himself from the shower curtain, autoerotic. I watch the car burn, do I care about any of this? Probably not. Leg cramps. If I could get to sleep by now...No! No! Not going to sleep, at least not until after 2Am. I sip from my Red Bull [first can]…And I’ll sit and watch the car on the corner burn. Let the motherfucker burn, we don’t need no water. 

[11:32Pm.]

I got nothing left but my aching soul. Do you still love me? I asked. Her reply: Absolutely not! No! You’re longer beautiful, you’ve gotten fat, and you smell awful. 

Dear Lord, bless this failure. All that grace couldn’t save my soul. And now what’s left to say? 

[11:36Pm.]

Drinking like the world will END, has it? Hey! Wait! I got another complaint. That’s why I’m making headlines [you stole that from some POP STAR, didn’t you, which one?]…Secretly he’s a savior. I’m thinking about death, and how I’ll die and you’ll die, and how I’ll probably die sooner rather than later, maybe tonight in my sleep. That’d be a way to go, just don’t wake up. Maybe I shouldn’t go to sleep and if I don’t sleep, well, then I won’t die...He lives to be 89, the next day...DEAD! [commercial break: Dunkin Donuts.]

[11:42Pm.]

That motherfucker poured me down the drain. No! I’m not high, not even drunk. Just extremely caffeinated and deranged. I never take the blame. You can’t wake [or sleep]…No! This is NOT a dream. The voices won’t leave me alone and I hear dogs bark in the distance. This no longer makes sense. Get my pretty name out of your mouth [stolen from another POP Darling, right?]…FULL STOP! Make sense, pull it back in. Damn! I think, therefore I am, and I’m not thinking straight. A jumble of nasty notions. [pull yourself together, man!] I need to straighten this out, what else to say? The moon hangs in the sky, God’s toenail. Don’t look twice, it’s all goddamn lies.

[11:56Pm.]

Re-reading this. Need to see where I’ve gone wrong. I’ve only got one shot to say it, and to say it straight, say what? I feel like an outsider. I don’t fit in. This small town keeps me on the outer limits, no longer wanted. Wish I were high on legal marijuana, it’d be a break from my brain. I’ve been too close to it lately, no longer detached and dreamy. Things are too close and incredibly loud. Brain burns, drowning in flames. [11:59Pm.]

BASS DROP!!! [tomorrow just became today...12:01Am.]

I don’t think I’m handling this too well. I feel so scattered. My brain’s in a rush to get nowhere fast. Sorry. Sorry? There’s no way out. Tonight I will NOT go past 5 of these diary pages. 

Call my friends, tell them to all get fucked. Aggressive. Angry. Becoming Anxious [he's Anxiety is a proper noun, it deserves a capital letter]. The dread is back. It’s because everything is moving so fast...it all blurs. Make small-talk. I’m bored. I do this for the $$$, not the thrill of it. This is not a new artform, this is lousy. STOP! 

My head’s filling up, fast, too fucking fast. Everything’s so speedy. I smile out of fear, and go to the kitchen for a glass of water before I fall apart. You can watch from your window. 

[12:08Am.]

Me and God don’t get along. Eating mango and listening to Lana Del Rey. Wish I had a cigarette, decided to quit this morning. Probably won’t last. Singing: Fuck yeah!

[12:11Am.]

Beginning to reconsider the whole: I’m going to stay awake until 2:13Am bullshit. But it’s doubtful I’ll be able to sleep without a kill me pill, my sleeping pill, Trazodone. Another POP song on the radio...do re mi/I pray the Lord my soul to keep. [borrowed from the tune playing now, right?]

THIS HAS ENDED! [12:16Am. he's going off to bed, pops that pill.]

 

Inhale the WORD! Exhale a Paragraph...

The Unexpurgated Diary of R. Cody Taylor [entry #three]

[April 22, 2021. 10:38Am.]

The rooster crows in the valley & I have denied Christ three or four times already this morning, but does he care? Nah! I think he’s used to it by now. FUCK! I’m so unreliable and fickle, taciturn and maudlin in the morning. 

Thoughts aren’t particularly straight, nothing’s linear, it’s all disjointed and I’ve got the heebie-jeebies from four cups of coffee and two cans of sugar free Red Bull [the big cans, 40oz]. I’m already cranked, feel a little crunked, and think I might try to say, today—all day—every thought that flits and flickers through my bedraggled brain. 

Feeling something like motivation this morning, and I’ve already been to the grocery store. I’m a verb this morning, full of action and gumption to get shit done. Will I clean the house? Probably not, but I do think I’ll spend the day scribbling aimlessly in this diary, all the unexpurgated thoughts that float from the hole in the back of my head. 

I’m sure I’ve already bored you to death, and for that I sincerely apologize, please forgive me. I promise I’ll try to be mildly entertaining today. NO! I guess I can’t promise that. NOPE! This will, more than likely, be rather drab and dismal and no promises of being interesting or entertaining can be made. Please stick with me. Are you out there? Will you leave me like everyone else has? Probably. Sorry to disappoint. 

[11:08Am.]

The bulbs in my room burn fluorescent, white light, and my hair blows in the breeze coming through the open window. Tenses, strengthens, thoughts float outward...dust has covered the coffee table, and the dingy carpet is frayed. I wait for something, anything, to happen. Life in rewind, backwards in the past tense. In my tomb-rooms of dust and no things...I’m not proud of my dirty sink, with dishes piled high, and I’m embarrassed by the state of my toilet. God, why? I sit upon my bed, dead things piled next to it. Pearl Jam’s Immortality (live) plays on my home stereo, I turn up, tune in, drop out. I’m swept out through the cracks beneath the door. Does this make any sort of sense, dig? 

Vacate is the word. Please define me. Holier than thou, how? Scrawled my suicide note on the back of a math equation I never could solve, pulled from an old algebra book I stole while still in middle-school. I’m in a strange mood, and the thoughts zip-zap, zig & zag, back and forth, through my beaten and blown brain. I wish you’d hold on, please don’t rush me. Some die just to live. What’s with me today? I want immortality, indeed I do. Life beyond the grave, eternal and everlasting. 

I can no longer do this, too confused and juxtaposed with absolute meaning [what the hell are you talking about? start making sense, and fucking quit with this gibberish, this nonsense, you’ll make a fool of yourself if anyone sees this]. Spin me round, roll me over, fuck in circles. Drop it down, dig? I can’t keep it up, too much light, overstimulated and uncomfortable. 

And that’s all I got, at least for now.

[11:28Am.]

I’m not even mad anymore. No, really. I’m no longer mad. But I’m certainly self-obsessed, a solipsist. I wish you nothing but the best, and the wicked get no rest. I’ve only slept 4 hours, and did not dream, nothing, just restless sleep. I hope when I finally sleep, I hope I dream of me. All I know for certain is what’s on my mind, do you think we’ll be in love forever? Do I look pretty?

[11:36Am.]

This diary, a nightmare, high and low, and behold the prophet, speaking blind allegiance to an intoxicating dogma...banished forever and anointed into the shelves of a dusty bookshelf, my unimaginative sleep, repetition without change. Baby, you’re no good for me, but I want you, and I want you to love me forever.

[11:39Am.]

I’m given away in whims and journals, my Secret-Genius diary, begging for help. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Stopping in for coffee, and insulting the preacher sitting near the window, goddamn! I hate that bastard. If they laugh, then fuck ‘em all!

[11:42Am.]

I sit alone in the house. My tiny yellow house. Zero degrees from all else, and I feel 6,000 human years old. I envision the deaths of many men, I’m the killer. Can you live without me? I don’t know why I’m sad inside? Social suicide. Sitting in the house, I save the lucid dreams for another time. Live without me. I murder many men inside my mind, watch them die a slow and painful death. [a commercial on the radio: Stone Cold Steve Austin & Ice T, they want me to wash in cold water with Tide.] I’m isolated from all else, 8,213,001 human years old. I don’t want to fall asleep, afraid I’ll pass away, I hope I go to Heaven, too afraid of Hell. Don’t stay awake too long, don’t go to bed. Pour another cup of coffee, up and at ‘em. Clear my head. Still semi-asleep. Make another cup of coffee for my head. What the hell am I saying? NOTHING. Everything means something else, something I no longer remember. This is possibly plagiarized [how much did you steal?]…I bite your beats and don’t even cite my sources. Steal like a hackneyed artist, such a waste. The killer, the simple mask. Can’t really trust nobody.

[11:52Am.]

I think I’m going psycho. Didn’t Post Malone say something like that? The words rip through my brain, everything’s so fucking fast right now, can I keep up? Don’t be cautious. Don’t be kind. Just pull the pen’s trigger. One more coffee and a banana and strawberry smoothie. By the way, I’ve been uninvited. Copycat, bites another beat.

[12:08Pm.]

…optimism for the jump…

Gotta wake-up. Taste the delicate thoughts that never bring the dawn. Two days ago it snowed, the day before it was 70 degrees. Could the mind turn violet? Everything turning in these yellow, fluorescent lights, turns to stone, ash from my cigarette, dust covers the windowsill. Come back to life, please. Gotta, gotta, gotta wake-up. I cover the hammer’s tracks that mark the wall. I no longer know what I have left to say [that’s an awkward sentence, revise]? DONE!

[12:27Pm.]

Two cigarettes, coffee, mango and cherry tomatoes for lunch. I’m beginning to run out of steam. Need an off-brand, bought at Aldi, Red Bull, can’t remember what Aldi calls their version of the power drink, but I bought a four pack and plan on drinking two of them today. O! Who gives a good goddamn? I mean, really? This again? Nah! I’ll write about something else besides my caffeine intake, gallons of coffee, and etc. 

Today I’m thinkin’ about, what? I need to find an end to this muddy stream-of-consciousness. 

Listen: sitting in the sun, and I fall to pieces. Reassemble me. Head spins, bury a friend. I want to end this. What do you want from me? Why do I do this? Does anyone give a rat’s ass about any of this bullshit? 

This is the END, my dear friend. [commercial break.] Wait! I’ve got a new complaint. What? I know you’re tired of me. Erase me. NOTHING left to say. I FUCKING QUIT! My brain is drowning in flames and I need to relax. Afternoon dose of medicine at 2:13Pm, and then, maybe, afterwards I’ll be back to these pages. Could be? That’s All, Folks! I got nothing left. [12:39Pm. END.]

 

Now I Got a Bellyache

The Unexpurgated Diary of R. Cody Taylor [entry #two]

[April 21, 2021. 6:36Pm.]

I don’t know what my entry point is, don’t know how to get started with the night’s writing. Feel like the last few days have been a snooze, nothing much has happened, at least nothing I feel will make for good, not even okay, writing. I’m thinking I need to turn back to Pessoa and look for something to rip-off and steal...Steal like an artist, right? Nah! I’m just a pathetic plagiarist, a no talent hack. Look for a line, copy something straight out of The Book of Disquiet. I thumb through the pages, and I don’t see anything that grabs my attention, or at least nothing I think I can use. Look one more time.

[6:58Pm.]

Here might be something, let’s see what happens…

For those few like me who live without knowing how to have life, what’s left but renunciation as our way and contemplation as our destiny? 

I guess this works. I mean, really, look: I have no clue how to have a life, at least how to have an interesting life, one that seems worth living. Does that sound too hyperbolic? Maybe it does. Renunciation. Rejection of those beliefs I was brought up with, rejection of the life I was told I was supposed to live. Where am I going with this? Not really sure. I renunciate it all, reject it all.

I contemplate all kinds of meaningless bullshit all day long. I contemplate the boring and banal, the pointless. I contemplate the nothingness of my life, but what good comes from this? Nothing that I can see, at least nothing good. It’s all navel gazing. I look inward and forswear the life I’ve been handed. I spurn the banality of my day-to-day existence. Jesus! This is terrible, and I sound like I’m some sort of angry teenager who feels no one understands him, will I ever grow up and pull my head out of my ass? Probably not. I look deeply into my lint encrusted navel and I see my future. There’s nothing there. It’s empty. O! who gives a shit? What’s there for me to contemplate? NOTHING. I sit here and try to think, nothing comes from that, other than the feeling that I’ve used the word NOTHING way too many times and should probably try to find a synonym. This is my destiny. My burden. My so-called life [really? you’re going to use that?]…I’m not sure how to feel about this fact. Whatever. Nevermind. I FUCKING QUIT!

[9:29Pm.]

Here’s me ripping Pessoa off again. 

By day I am nothing, and by night I am I. 

One more time, I swear I’ll try to be original soon.

The nocturnal glory of being great without being anything! […] And at this table in my absurd room, I, a pathetic and anonymous office clerk, write words as if they were the soul’s salvation[…]

I’m in my back office, what used to be the laundry room, my desk sits right next to the water heater, and I’m trying to do the night’s writing. Trying to be great without being anything at all. I’m a pathetic janitor who spends his nights pretending to be some genius writer, spending late nights writing for salvation, trying to escape the vapidity of my daily life, my life in the sun, trying to be the writer I’ve always dreamed of being. I’m sure I’ll always be some sort of anonymous, low-level, grunt worker, but in my mind, when the sun goes down, I am a fucking genius and the words I write are perfect and they take me far away from the dull and ordinary bullshit of my humble life. The words I write, once the sun goes down, save my soul from the dullness of my daytime life cleaning toilets and mopping floors. At night I am I. And right now I am a writer and my soul flies high. I am saved and eternal. I am free. No longer a broom pusher. I am a poet, a writer, a man of words, and I am a fucking genius! Look at me go. 

Now it’s time to just be true to myself and try to come up with some sort of originality. But is anything really original? Didn’t Solomon say there’s nothing new under the sun? I think so, and I tend to agree, and fuck! It’s easier to write when I have some words poached from one of the greats, someone like Pessoa, a man I can sort of relate to, at least from what I’ve read about him and his life. It seems he and I have a few things in common. I just wish I had his way with words, his talent. But like him, I live to write, even if that writing is never seen by anyone besides myself and the cat, Ms. Maggie Monster, and she’s been bored by my writing, she’s no longer interested in the words I scribble before bed, or on nights when I can’t sleep. She no longer cares much for the words that flow from the tip of my pen, a black Bic. No matter. Letting words pour from the pen helps me understand who I am a little better, and I need the release of scribbling in a notebook. I’ve got to get the pressure off my head. All those thoughts being bottled up is no good for me, makes me feel sick and frustrated, but when I can get the pen to speak, all is well in my heart and mind. Right now, I feel at ease. I feel free. But I’ve said this already, right? Soul’s salvation is words on the page, and right now the words feel like they may need to be written all night long. I’ve had way too much coffee today and sleep seems a long way away, don’t know that I’ll even want to sleep tonight. I probably will, and probably sooner rather than later, but for now I’m going to write and see what happens as my fingers bang on the keys of my laptop. See what happens as I let the thoughts escape from the hole in the back of my head. What’s next?

[10:17Pm.]

Took a late night Ritalin, trying to extend my night indefinitely, or at least extend it a few more hours. I feel like I should be writing and using this time as productively as I can, and I feel most productive when I’m writing and letting the words flow, and for the moment the words are coming without too much hassle, I don’t want it to stop, not yet anyway, even if the words are redundant and repetitive and not wholly original. I still gotta write them down and put them on the pulp page. Look: it just feels good to pen one more pathetic sentence, paragraph, page.

Thinking about going out for an energy drink at Kum-N-Go, and before the night’s out I’ll probably need another pack of cigarettes, just not sure the budget will allow for anymore smokes. What to do? Nothing for the moment. Just keep on writing and see where the rest of the night goes. Carrying on conversations with dudes from the internet, Instagram buddies, other writers, which is nice, since I rarely see anyone, or talk to anyone. Nice to have a few writers to bullshit with when I’m having trouble winding down for the night. I set an alarm for 11:30Pm, and have decided if I still want that energy drink at 11:30, well, I’ll leave the house and go buy one, but nothing before 11:30Pm. Who knows, maybe I’ll crash before then? Guess we’ll see.

[interlude: Book Break/Tea Time.]

[11:16Pm.]

Still thinking about that energy drink, or maybe a couple of cups of coffee from the gas station. Still feel pretty good about the rest of the night, seems like I can keep at this for another hour or two, maybe. The alarm will go off in 15(ish) minutes and I’ll go smoke and probably go buy a couple cans of some sort of power drink and see what else I can get done tonight. Still carrying on conversations with writer/internet buddies, nice to have someone to bullshit with at 11:21Pm, especially since I never have anyone to talk to about writing and all that sort of shit. It’s nice to finally have writer friends. For too long all my buddies have been rock ‘n’ rollers, nice to have a crew of writers to bullshit with when I still can’t sleep.

I'm still thinking about overindulging in some caffeinated beverages, get something like 900 milligrams of caffeine and get cranked and crunked and see if I can stay awake to see the sunrise. Probably a dumb idea, but sounds fun, why not, right? I guess the alarm will be sounding soon, and besides, I need another Lucky, guess I’ll think about leaving shortly, wait...what if the car breaks down on the way? A slight anxiety creeps up my back and takes up residency in the middle of my brain. UGH! I hate how my mind tries to attack me and keep me from doing what I want, should I, or shouldn’t I, take a trip to Kum-N-Go? Give me a few more minutes to think. Now I exit stage left and through the front door for one more cigarette, I still have an espresso drink in the fridge. I’ll have that and wait a little bit longer before leaving for the gas station. 

[11:46Pm.]

Decided against the gas station and the energy drinks, at least until 4Am. Plan on being in bed by 1Am, but for now a double iced espresso from Starbucks, have one left. Nothing else until 4Am. Maybe I’ll do a smoothie soon. FUCK! This is getting a little bland, who wants to know what beverages I’m indulging in? I mean, really, who gives a shit? Not me. And now I’ll end this thought thread, I think.

[April 22, 2021. 12:20Am. Tomorrow is now Today.]

Beginning to come down, the buzz from all the caffeine, and that late night Ritalin, is wearing off and I feel like I’ve said too much today. I need to be quiet for a little while, and sleep seems to be something I should do. I mean, look, I’m sure you’re probably tired of talking to me, tired of listening to me ramble and say, more or less, the same shit over and over. I don’t know that I have anything left to say, should I sleep and recharge the creative battery? Seems like I should, but the thing is this: I can’t seem to really get in a groove creatively before 8 or 9 at night, seems like my peak creative hours are between 8Pm and 3Am, and then I’m dry for a couple of days. I don’t know if I should just keep at it and utilize every last waking minute. I guess I probably should, but I’ve also got to work at 8Am and doubt I can do that on a sleepless night. UGH! Let me debate this with myself while I smoke one more Lucky Strike. Seems like a cigarette will make it easier to decide, maybe. Wait! Here’s the thought: I think I will wind down for the night. Take my bedtime medicine and think about sleeping, read for an hour and see how I feel after the pills [Risperdal 6mg, Lamictal 300mg]…Okay, it’s been decided, going to take my meds, drink some water and just read. Going offline, no more chit-chat tonight. Closing my mouth, shutting the pen up, closing the journal, power down and relax. Nothing left to say. This is me saying goodnight and godbless. I’m done until morning, I think. I hope. [12:32Am. END.] 

Maybe post this shit in the morning, re-read it with morning eyes and see how ashamed you are of the writing when you wake. Feels okay. Tomorrow will tell. Okay, seriously, that’s all I got left. [12:34Am. END, for real this time.]

[quick update. 8:28Am.]

Knocked off for bed around 1Am and slept up until 6:17Am when a nicotine fit woke me from my slumber. Bought those energy drinks I wanted, and now it’s time to re-read this bullshit and see what I think about it. Time to begin my day. 

[9:16Am.]

Going to post this garbage, please don't judge me too harshly. Thanks, and have a good day. Maybe I'll be back later, but who really knows how the pen will feel after its breakfast of little white pills [Buspar 30mg, Wellbutrin 450mg and Ritalin 20mg], maybe he'll still want to talk, or maybe he won't, only time will tell.

Here I am now. Fucking entertain me. [9:21Am. Hot Bed is on the stereo.]

 

STOP! It's Too Late. I'm Feeling Frustrated

The Unexpurgated Diary of R. Cody Taylor [entry #one]

I need an entry point, and not knowing how to begin this, well, I’m going to rip-off Fernando Pessoa. Here we go…

In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it’s because I have nothing to say.

I want to say EVERYTHING.

I have NOTHING to say.

I never leave the house, or at least I very rarely get out, and never seeing anyone, I know I won’t have much of anything interesting to say within these pages, but I feel I must write. I just have to put every word down on the pulp page. But I’m not sure exactly why. I just feel compelled, and knowing nothing other than what’s inside my head, I will write down every stray thought that zip-zaps, zig-zag-zigs, through my beleaguered brain. I will confess everything. I hope to be completely honest within these pages, say everything as truthfully as I can. 

But, know this, I am an unreliable narrator and am prone to lying. So this then will be an exercise in honesty, how honest can I be? I will do my best to be truthful. I swear, you can trust me.

[Ask yourself: How ‘auto’ is this autofiction? 7:43Pm]

[April 19, 2021. 9:28Am]

I write in my quiet room, alone as I will always be, or at least so it seems. The cat sits beside me, purring and licking her paws. She purrs, and I scratch her head. Ms. Maggie looks like she’s smiling, my sweet cat, the only other noun around. Most days I sit trapped in my head, thoughts loud and bouncing off the walls of my muddled mind. An echo of thought, growing louder and louder and louder until my brain hurts and all thinking stops. Mute. Headache. I smoke a cigarette and try to feel better. The sun shines, lemon yellow in the sky above, a soft breeze blows and cools my face. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men try to put Cody’s head back together again. I sip coffee [cold] and try to relax. I breathe and watch a red robin on the power pole. I try not to think. Silence. 

[10:23Am]

Me, in this small yellow house, interrogating life! Saying what my heart feels! Writing prose and poetry like some sort of genius, or some famous author! At least that’s what I see in my head, who’s to say that I’m wrong? There’s no problem with playing pretend on a boring Monday morning. 

Too much caffeine and I’ve got the heebie-jeebies, jitter-jangled and shook. I don’t know why I do this to myself, drink too much coffee and get all jittery? I’m too reliant on stimulants to get anything done, and I always over-indulge on the coffee and nicotine. I take 20 milligrams of Ritalin a day, every once in awhile 30mg. My shrink wouldn’t give me an Adderall prescription, afraid my addict brain would abuse amphetamines, and I’m sure he’s right. Is Ritalin an amphetamine? I drink gallons of cold coffee, and still don’t seem to get much done. The house is a mess, trashed and disorderly, it definitely needs to be cleaned, organized and scrubbed. It’s gross, the toilet looks like the toilet from Trainspotting, I mean it really does. I should be ashamed of myself for allowing my house to get this way, FUCK! I’m so lazy and my priorities are skewed, put too much time in on these grandly delusional thoughts of being a writer. I put too much time into playing pretend.

This is bumming me out. I need to quit thinking about my messy house and all the shit I’ve put off over the past several months. Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll clean and straighten, do the dishes and vacuum, or something, pull my head out of my ass and do something constructive. Need to get out of Fantasyland and back into the Real World. But who really wants reality? I know I don’t. 

[3:36Pm]

My deplorable situation isn’t in the least affected by the words I’m writing, it’s still a sad state of affairs. But, little by little, and piece by piece, my book of pointless musings and digressions moves on, I scribble with abandon. I think maybe this writing, if I’m lucky, all this pointlessness, just might provide some hurt or sad soul a few minutes of distraction from something worse than this writing, and if that’s the case, that’s enough for me, I think. I hope that’s enough, what else could I ask for from these meaningless confessions? I talk too much. I should probably shut-up now and move onto something productive, do something more worthwhile than scribbling in this diary, maybe I should do the dishes. 

[interlude: Training at work. 4Pm.]

[11:32Pm]

Ending out this day with one last entry before I decide whether or not to post this bullshit onto my blog, I don’t know that I will. But, also, I feel I need to make this diary public, and need to connect with someone out there beyond my house, the cat, and beyond the very few people I see daily, which are only the 3 ladies I work with [L. S. & M.] and the woman I buy my cigarettes from at the Kum-N-Go on Jefferson Avenue, I don’t know her name and that’s okay with me. Tonight I don’t think I have much left to say, maybe I do and don’t know it. Took more Ritalin an hour ago, and it’s [20mg] kicking in, I think. I plan on this being a long night of no, to very little, sleep and definitely no dreaming, I’m okay with this. Twenty minutes left in the day and I think I’ll take a shower.

It’s supposed to snow tomorrow, snow on 4/20. Feels like tomorrow I’m supposed to spend all day smoking weed. They, those Weathermen/Weatherwomen, say 2 or 3 inches, fucked up weather, but I have nowhere to go, not even work, doesn’t matter one way or the other. I have nothing to do tomorrow, and that’s okay, maybe I’ll do some house cleaning, but probably not. I think I’ll hop in the shower, I’m itchy and I think a shower could take care of whatever’s making me itch. [I just did an Edit, self-censoring, do you really need to know everything? I told you I’m unreliable, a liar. Sorry I can’t be totally truthful, I need to preserve some dignity.] The cat is lying on the couch next to me, grooming herself and looking a little sleepy. I itch. END of the day’s entry. [11:46Pm]

April 20, 2021. [12:08Am]

Going to re-read yesterday’s drivel and see how much of it shames me, if at all, the odds are it will embarrass the hell out of me and keep me from making this diary public. Have I posted this, and are you out there reading? Probably not, but I’ll pretend you’re out there, Dear Reader, and I’ll pretend that you’re listening to me ramble. Okay, to do the re-read and see what I think. Be back later, or some such shit. Just out of the shower and dressed in fresh clothes, or at least only halfway dirty clothes. Over and out, I swear...

UPDATE: I guess I’m going to post this [but you already know this, are you out there?] and then begin the late-night shift of writing until dawn, maybe, I think so. Need some caffeine, all I got is green tea, and I don’t want anything hot, not really. Okay, post this shit…[12:28Am]