My friend and I were standing around in a fairly secluded spot last night. A junction of sorts in the local woodlot. Weād just had our hits, and we were anticipating the come-up. I was about to put on a song.
This guy comes up to us and starts asking for directions. He was pretty friendly, so when he began making small talk, we didnāt exactly object. We were just looking for something to kill the boredom.
He was strangely talkative. We figured he was drunk, or maybe just a little autistic. I mean, so were we. He was a few years older than us. White guy, large beard, millennial dress. Looked like a retired hipster. Somebody you could share a cigarette with. Somebody you wouldn't mind conversing with for a minute or two.
What ensued was an eighty-minute rant on his part. No kidding. He rambled on for an hour, non-stop. He talked faster than anybody Iāve ever met. We couldnāt get a fucking word in. He was jumping from topic to topic with zero coherence. No consideration for our thoughts or feelings, and no pauses whatsoever. He went from yapping about music, to serial killers, to gay people, to pedophiles, to kindergartens, to prostitution, to rehabilitation, to his friends, to psychedelics, to gypsies, to ADHD, to trans people, to his mother, to robberies - he wouldnāt shut the fuck up. He was spilling water on himself and pacing back and forward like a stupid sperg. It was like listening to a caffeinated chimpanzee.
The drugs were working as expected, and things were starting to feel like a little too much for me. It was such an abysmal contradiction of energies.
Time felt like it was standing still. My friend compared it to the time dilation of an acid trip. Not that I, uhm, would know anything about that.
He was just so fucking boring.
I had to sit down after about fifty minutes of listening. I thought I was descending into psychosis. I couldnāt stand up, my breathing was compromised, the blood had left my face, I was on the brink of vomiting my intestines out, and all I could hear was this fucking retard yapping.
It was only near the end of the conversation that he admitted to self-medicating with black-market amphetamines. Yeah, go fucking figure.
The ketamine had stopped working by then, and we struggled to get away from him. It was already three in the morning. He wouldnāt end the fucking conversation. My friend was trying really hard to brush him off, but every time he went āListen, man. It was real nice meeting you and all, but Iāve got work tomorrow, and-ā, he'd get interrupted with another fifteen-minute rant.
Anyway, we fucked off. For all we know, that junkieās probably still awake.
I couldāve written more after I came home, but it was way, way, way too late. Besides I write like shit when I'm under the influence. [12:46]
I couldāve just stayed at home and jerked off last night.
Itās all the same, really.
Shit gets old. Anybody I know will tell you that. But thereās gotta be a state of shit getting old where, I donāt know, that sits fine with you.
I keep trying to break away from mundanity, but it feels like a pointless pursuit. Between the weekday drinking, the jerking off, the studying, and what not, life feels a little like a drab ringtone on eternal repeat.
And never mind novel thrills, or how many of those there are left to discover. I don't think I'll ever get to try pussy. And even if I had the money for travel, it wouldnāt feel like a reinvention of myself. At least thatās what people tell me it feels like.
People like to think of themselves as malleable lumps of clay they can impose their will on and sculpt into pretty designs.
I prefer to think of myself as a rock in a shoe.
Lifeās just effort after effort to get away from thoughts of oneself. To evade the agony of self-awareness. Sometimes I fail miserably, and Iām forced to ponder the state of my existence, the things Iāve done wrong, the chances I couldāve taken, the life I could've lived, the person I could've been. The only times I willingly engage in introspection these days is when I write, and writing is in and of itself a form of distraction from earnest thinking. It's a neurotic's trick.
I donāt believe itāll ever do me any good.
People never stop thinking about themselves. They say itās to facilitate a change in self-perception, whenever thatāll fucking happen. [14:23]
My parents left the house. I'll masturbate. [17:43]
I didnāt masturbate. I didnāt have the energy.
I keep feeling tired, but I donāt think I am. Or, I donāt know. What the fuck? Isnāt tiredness supposed to be a feeling?
Somebody better kill me, quick. [19:08]
The comedown wasnāt so bad once I got some fresh air. Ketamineās never really brought me down like that before. Iāve been a minute away from bludgeoning somebody ever since I woke up.
I watched two guys wrestle today. Theyāre old classmates. We were the autistic gamer clique back in middle school, but our paths sort of diverged in high school. There were five or six of us. Life gave us different headspaces, different environments, different attitudes.
Theyāre the brusque, manly types. They exercise, they grapple, they drive, they vote conservative. Theyāre religious, so theyāre chaste, meaning they havenāt put their penises in any kind of pussy yet.
That would apply to me too, but Iām not exactly encumbered by religious convictions. Assuming that the guys are genuinely devout, and not abusing faith as a political signal.
They know Iām different from them. Theyāll gladly single me out as the lanky, awkward, nihilistic, liberal, hipster faggot who thinks heās too clever to wrestle around on the astroturf. They havenāt heard my thoughts on women, but suffice to say they know Iām an unabashed leftie. Itās only harmless banter when they tease me about it.
I self-deprecate. It cracks them up. I pretend to take pride in my skinniness. I tell them exercise is a complete and utter waste of time, that driving is for the self-important and impatient, and that theyād be a lot of happier sleeping in every day, day-drinking and sucking dick.
Thereās nothing funny about wrestling, really. At least there hasnāt been since I was sixteen, and I got to watch my classmates roll around on the football field with their sweaty scrotums in each otherās faces. Everyone found that amusing.
The gay jokes are, uhm, dated, to say the least. I didnāt pull any this evening. If you went up to a wrestler and called him a faggot, you'd be on thin ice.
Mind you, I've never wrestled. Not once in my life. I was asked today if I wanted to try it out, and I refused.
Thereās something to it, though. Something alloerotic.
I was sitting on the side, watching them. Theyād start out on the ground most bouts. One, with his legs wrapped around the other. A typical leglock. Lips only a few centimeters away from each other, stomachs touching and eyes locked. The sort of sweaty, impolite interposition you only see in missionary porn. And wrestling, I guess.
While the atavists were having a blast pinning each other down, twisting legs and squeezing necks, I was standing over them with my cheesy, viridescent sunglasses, fantasizing about primates fighting over pussy.
Itās one thing to be terrible at a sport. Itās another to not even have the guts to play.
You wouldnāt wrestle your girlfriend, but youād probably want her legs wrapped around you from time to time. Itās not really a matter of exemplifying brute force, so much as a fetching show of boldness.
If youāre too much of a pussy to bear the thud of her heels against your stiffened glutes, maybe youāre not cut out for coitus.
Itās a real shame. [23:27]
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