I know bullies.
I hate the word. You know that? Hate it. Can't stand it. Bullies. Sounds childlike. It sounds inconsequential. It sounds like a thing a real person should be able to effortlessly brush aside with no help, other than perhaps the aid of an '80s workout montage. Bully. I didn't have bullies. They didn't steal my fucking milk money. They made every day, every hallway, every stairway, every room a living fucking hell. Bullies. They weren't bullies. They were the terrorists of my life. The terrorists of my youth. They are still with me. They send me friend requests and even if they don't, they would still be with me. My mother is gone. My mother is over two years gone and my mother does not speak to me, does not impart wisdom, but my bullies are still here. Mick, you are nothing. Mick, you are fat. Mick, who wouldn't be better without the burden of you?
My mother does not speak to me but the bullies do, and it's probably just as well because I don't know how different her words would be. My mom might say my full name. You know. For effect.
My mother is gone and my mother does not speak to me. Where is she? Where did she go? What is she now? What would she say to me, if she could? All you ghost hunters and psychics, why do you not channel my mother's words to me? Why doesn't my mother move shit in the kitchen in the middle of the night and whisper shit to me while I'm asleep? "Mick, the lottery number is 2342." Or "Mick, buy MudGum stock, it's going to go fucking crazy." Or "Mick, I know you think I didn't love you, but I did. I still do. I hate that you don't think I loved you. I endured a lot, Mick and it changed me. It made me not always say the best things, but I need you to know now that I loved you. I always loved you. I never thought you were a mistake. I never thought you were a monster. I never thought you were something I wished I'd flushed even though I spoke to you like everything you did and said and thought was nothing but a curse against me."
But you motherfuckers can record ghosts whispering shit in 50 year old prisons. Sure. Sell that shit with a bridge.
I am drunk. And this should be accounted for.
Do you know when this goddamned pandemic is over nothing will change for me? Nothing. I was a shut-in when it started and I will be a shut-in when it's over. I am the guy in Seven, or Se7en, or however the fuck they spell it. I am the first victim. I am fat. It is alright to hate me. I am fat. Brad Pitt will talk shit over my slaughtered corpse. Morgan Freeman will show a modicum of tact. And the M.E. will be, like, "see how big this stomach is?" And everyone will be thinking, "Well, no shit."
I am getting more drunk now.
This blog, when I envisioned it, would be my triumphant return from the land of self destruction. I don't know if that's possible. I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop killing myself. I keep trying. I climb steps and read books and I just don't know, man. I think I'm doomed. I mean, we're all doomed, aren't we? We can jog and go to 12 step meetings and do yoga and mediate and shop local and eat organic and one day some motherfucker checks his facebook notifications at the wrong intersection and then you are nothing. You are vapor. You are memories. We're all fucking doomed. We're all heading to the same place and that's no place at all.
It's POSSIBLE I have had too much to drink. BUT YOU SHOULD BE IMPRESSED BY MY LACK OF TYPOS GODDAMMIT.
What can I tell you that you don't know? What can I tell you that I will regret telling you tomorrow?
Before pandemics and riots, before covid and calamity, there were more days than I want to admit that I would drive to my job on 787 and, occasionally? I would close my eyes. And just drift. But not long enough apparently.
I'm still here. Don't reach out to me. It is futile. I am hopeless. I'll still be around decades from now, more miserable and equally eloquent.
This is a blog.
Most of the time I won't be drunk. But this time I am. Because I can't stand life, man. I just can't. Someone teach me how to not hate myself. Someone force me to not hate myself.
Fuck you Kurt. You got to quit at 27.
I have cats. They can't survive without me.
Ghosts are bullshit. Please tell me ghosts are bullshit. Either ghosts are bullshit or the universe hates me. What did Ebenezer Scrooge ever do to deserve ghosts? If I'm stingy about coal or whatever, will I get ghosts? NO MORE COAL TINY TIM YOU TINY FUCK. I want to talk to my mom.
