You’re the sun in my morning baby”
Father Stretch my Hands -Kanye West
That’s the type of thoughts I wake up to these days. Recovering from a hangover of cheap liquor – keg, and a ton of nicely writ stories I read the previous day (currently nothing save Russian stories). Sex. Weird right, waking up at the crack of dawn, your head heavy with literature and your mind occupied by nothing save sex! But I love these thoughts, since I’m getting no sex currently. For reasons which I’ve failed to ascertain. I’m I on dry spell out of choice or the lack of someone to thrust my genitals into? The tragedy of the artist, I think.
The artists that have women have them in excess. The rest of us, have failed to find a good enough lie to make her stick around or are simply too broke to hire a girl to hang around. Good thing these days, is you’ll know if someone is in it for the sex, y’all exchange genital fluids and are straight with each other. They are the times of great sex and no sex. Great sex toys, and great child toys. Times of great love,or no love.
I know I should wake up, but what the hell… Long as it is not yet ten in the morning, I’m all covered. I read in Wuthering Heights (great book by the way) that “a man that is asleep at ten in the morning risks not having completed half a day’s work by evening.” Well, I have about three hours to burn. Burn. Aah, I need to smoke something. That gets me off the bed pretty quick.
Damn I must have gotten drunk last night. But how drunk can one get on cheap liquor? I ask. I have nothing save a mere thirty five shillings in my four pant pockets. Oh, and a beer bottletop in my jacket. Oh, so I drank beer too… Cheers to that.
I push open my smoking matchbox. Which was a real drag too. With large thumb and all. There’s a couple marijuana butts in it. For the rainy day. Rainy indeed. About six. My foot is atop a small book so, might as well use it to reroll these to better fingers while at it. I mean, only one had a good drag left while the rest were nothing but tufts of weed. Aah, that blunt. Had been a quickie actually. I’d gone to one of those boring workshops and writer whatnots and in between, my head began feeling heavy. So, doing the manly thing (manly), I popped out for a smoke behind the building. The guts. Getting out to smoke marijuana behind a building from where I couldn’t run if caught. And I nearly did get caught. A couple came by. A dude and a woman who was good to look at. Too good to look at in actuality. Endowed with a fine figure, big booty and damn the right height to pinch the nose of God sneaking a glance at her ass. She made sure I’d see it alright… Wiggling and throwing her hips and about I nearly missed the boy in her company. The boy. Since I’ve mentioned a boy, it’ll be rude to not say a word about him. Or a thought of him. He was and is like a tongue out emoji. Nothing but out there. And he was out yes. A sliver of wool in jet black hair. To be noticed but not to be seen.
I did the most courteous thing then, left them to their devices. Which basically was the lady’s body parts. And the dude’s whatever name millennials call penises these days. When I came back to get on with my smoking, half a blunt now, I found a used condom wrapper and a packet with two unused packs still in. Well, they had a literal quickie in my quickie spot. The envy I had. If lightning can’t strike one place twice, my matchstick couldn’t be struck twice one place either. That’s how a nearly full blunt (I’d had four puffs off it I reckon) ended up in my casket among half dead fingers of its brethren.
The task complete, I… Damn. Out of rolling papers! Again.
I lifted my leg to check what book I had stepped on. And opened a page off it. We must always judge the contents of books.
“I want to be buried, Lotte, in the clothes I have on. You have touched them and made them sacred. I have asked your father, too, to do this for me. My soul floats over the coffin. Please let one go through my pockets. The pale pink bow that you wore at your breast when I saw you for the first time…” well, a suicide note from a lover to another who probably didn’t love him/her back…
This book is… Aah, The Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe. I could as well make sure I brighten up a piece of young Werther’s life by rolling this pot in it.
Damn my head felt good upon the first pull. And my thoughts went to none but the good dame with the fat ass and Goethe. Man spent a good amount of energy hiding his garden house only for it to be turned to a museum upon his death. The fallacy of life. Amounting to nothing save a trampling ground for assholes and other sick fucks. And the pretty lass. All that beauty but still lacking the self respect to not let a man put his fingers up your dresses in ways that do not border civility. I mean, you could have everything but lack what matters. How do you let someone Fuxk you outside a writing conference… With condoms cheaper than a blunt of weed!!! Than a can of soda?
My head felt thick.
Damn, I have thirty shillings.
Unfinished writing projects that could rake in a hive of money… Oh well, first things first.
With the weed now done. Only one thing remained to start the day on… No, one of two things. My phone was still on, always is. With no missed calls no text messages, sigh.
I always have this video saved. You never know where the network is good for shit. I’ve masturbated to it for so long I practically knew every moan and every scratch on the two bodies of the models. I’m the type of guy that chooses to masturbate to lesbian porn each time. How someone would choose a video that puts dick all over their face is still a mystery to me. Okay, not dick necessarily but a man’s ass as well… No need to go into details but anyway, I got down to it.
You ever imagined how Adam (and Eve) felt after eating the goddamn fruit and got kicked out of a garden while nude?! (the big man’s parenting skills are something) Well, all you have to do is masturbate to porn while naked. Feels the same. Lonely.
With a head misting with pot and my sexual needs taken care of(alongside my sexual fantasy) I’m ready to write a game changer. Like how Marcia was before embarking on the long journey of writing “A Hundred Years of Solitude” which is a must read for anyone who wants to be my girlfriend, petfriend or any friend. Aah, the most important thing yet, food.
Isn’t it weird that eating is necessary for us to be alive or at least feel alive? I mean with such propensity to consume huge knowledge, it amounts to nothing if you aren’t well fed. I bet you my life, we consume more than the dinosaurs ever could and did. Oh, funny afterthought for the dumb masses that never read, guess what, the dinosaurs never read too… Look what happened to them. Is that how you wanna go out? Like a Rex chasing after a raptor?
Also, isn’t it weird that artists use drugs to make more art and make more art to make money to buy drugs? The broke amongst us end up doing weird shit and drugs. I mean, Vincent Van Gogh gave out his ear as payment to (wait for it) a whore… He also drank yellow paint because he believed it’d make him happy. Do you now see the type of lives we’re forced to have? This why we abuse Drugs…
I mean, I cannot be broke, unable to attract even the most unattractive woman (that reads) and still face my unfortunate reality each morning.
But, of late, I’d begun having a sexual attraction to one female human. Not sexual attraction per se, rather whatever compels us to conjugate. Notice I haven’t said congregate. Rather, conjugate. Yes. She, (un)fortunately has replied in kind and is seemingly attracted to me as well. Which is a tragedy really if you ask me. I mean look at me, a walking mass of human disappointment. A man, one of his kind, who quits his job to pursue a career of writing and active drug consumption. A man, driving his ass to failure.
Her name is Jenny. We met at an art forum.
Don’t get me wrong. I fucking hate these forums. From butt-licking writers who can’t write for shit to badass writers who want their asses licked through to those that studied literature in fancy tongued Unis after some grant or scholarship and walk around in dreadlocks to show their “Africanness.” They make these conferences seem like a bonfire held in the middle of a man’s latrine washroom. Notice, man’s latrine. Great heat but at what fucking expense.
Anyhowly, I met this…
Was it necessary for human beings to release waste from their bodies in the most inhumane way possible? And right in the middle of my thinkings?!
She’s a visual artist, that Jenny.