Sick,

Fuck, that last one was so fucking self centered. It wasn't supposed to be, but I was happy/excited. I'm not like that usually.

I worked most of the night last night. got home at 7 am and slept until 10am. Nice little nap. When I awoke, I felt like I was in a coma. I couldn't move. It HURT so damn bad just to roll over. My back has been killing me for weeks, but this morning, it ALL hurt. Everything except my nose. I think I caught the plague. Joints, bones, skin, cartridge, and organs, I can feel it all throb. It hurt to LIE DOWN. What the fuck is that about? I couldn't hold still. Just to help my brain concentrate on moving and not hurting. I took 2 Aleve, and made some hot whiskey, water, and honey drinks. They helped after a few hours. I feel about 50% better now.

So I'm half schnockered and hurting a little.

Who filled my legs with gravel?

Who filled my lungs with tarter sauce?

( I did )

Amazing invention, that alcohol and pain reliever is.

somehow, there's always something to look forward to.

The buzz is catching on like a well spread disease. The last few nights have been 123 rounds of fun. I was contacted some months ago by a book publisher, that wanted me to take some photo's. i did. I submitted them. Now I've been contacted by the author of one of the most famous books written about one of the most famous bands ever. Regardless of whether or not you agree, they are a famous band. He's asked me to get a hold of him if I'm ever in the area. I shall. He's a quick train ride away. I can't express how stoked I am about meeting him, and talking to him about music. Mostly the band in question, but he was also the editor of one of the most famous music rags in the NW, if not the whole USA. I want to talk up the whole NW music scene, back to the 1950's. I cannot tell ya how happy I am to have this opportunity. I'm being vague, I know. But I can't reveal what this project is until it's done. Wouldn't be right.

I'm going to take more pictures for this book next month. When it's all said and done, I will let it be known that I had the littlest, tiniest, teeniest part of something that I am proud of.

I can pretend.

ryan

dog cat fish duck cow

I think I knew at an early age that Death was an obvious part of Life. My first memories of death were of pets dying. I had goldfish that would occasionally go belly up. My parents had a little white dog that probably died around the time I was one or two years old. I remember seeing the cross they made for his grave in the outskirts of the backyard. The grave marker no longer stands, but the spot of his burial still remains. I got a bunny one Easter. I was seven or so. Obviously, I named him Thumper. One nasty, windy day, a tree blew over and crushed his hutch. My dad said he escaped, never to be seen again. I wonder. I/we had a dog, her name I cannot remember after that. She lived a long life, only to one day disappear. I see her vividly in my brain, but cannot remember her name. We had a cat my sister named Blackberry White. I had some ducks without names. I had a cow, a fucking cow, named Charlie. i raised him from calf to monster, and then we ate him. We had Tac. A really cool white cat. One day, he disappeared. A few months later, a neighbor gave us a white kitten. Obviously Tac's son. He was named Taccer two. He was put to sleep a few days ago. He lived 18 years. My parents still have two cats. One named Ben, who is totally lethargic, and getting fatter by the day, and the other is names Slate. She's a slut. Keeps popping out kittens, but my dad loves her. Mom hates her. She's mean to mom, total sweetheart to dad. It's funny. Now I have a new kitten. Named him Leo. He's an orange and white tabby with really cool patterns. And he's insane. Of course he is, he's a kitten. Seven months old. I just bought him some ridiculously huge piece of cat furniture on ebay. I'm hoping it keeps him off of the tv. Guess I'll find out in a few days when it shows up. He's teething. He bites everything. He's funny.

Cannibal heart and brain

For some reason, I am constantly reminded of all the bad times in my life. Little things bring back these shitty memories. Hardly ever am I reminded of the good times. I don't know why. Living alone has all the advantages in the world, but not having someone to call on, talk to, or just have a good time with is definitely draining. That being said, I've given up looking. But I haven't given up complaining about it. It's a catch 22 I guess. It's tiring, I'm tired, and everyone is tired of hearing about it.

Guess I'll just get up tomorrow, go to work, and daydream through the day, like always.

I will chug clam juice like it's orangey flavored motor oil. I'll partake of the dust of the ground. I'll leave scent, only for you. And I'll burn the carcass, when I have to.

My life is not your decoration.

My life is my definition.

Saturday night

I ended up drinking a half rack of Seirra Nevada Pale. At home. Alone.

I thought I'd walk to the store to get one more beer. Driving was out of the question at this point. For obvious reason. I'm glad that even when I'm shitfaced, I still have the common sense not to do anything to stupid.

I got to the store. An easy half mile walk. Then it hit me that there was a bar only another mile-mile and a half away. For whatever reason, I decided to go for it. By this time, it was raining like a bitch too. I guess 6 months of non adventure finally culminated. So I went for it.

I was busy texting with a friend on the walk there, so that helped whittle away the time. When I got there, I beelined for a stool, and sat. I asked for a good IPA, and was told for $5 I could get a good IPA and a free glass. Deal.

It was a nice, heavy glass. One more for the cupboard.

I drank few more, between texting. The bartendress was really cool. She put up with my "What other beers do ya have?' babble.

Last call was called at 1:15am. What the hell? I argued, kinda, for a minute. I'd had enough anyway. Surprised I even got served, but like I said, I can be a pretty good drunk when I need to be.

I started walking home. It was only about 1:30, and I passed a convenience store. Ah, what's one more 22? I bought one, but I don't remember what it was. Stopped to take a piss by some construction site, and it was then I decided I'd better find a side street to walk home, since I about fell over, and had a full, opened 22 in my hand. I made it home, don't know when, and passed out.

As expected, I felt like shit on Sunday and didn't get my laundry done.

its time to sign out burn out and give up. Perfect color isn't possible, so shut up. Goddamn little asshole, little lump lip. Drink water, be quiet, and starve. You get embarrassed when your body speaks. Let your eye scream. Have I been alive for roughly 11680 days? Doesn't seem that many. Estimates.

Turns out it's only 11548 days. 277152 hours. 997747200 seconds.

Boring.

Young enough to die of a old man's heart. I might go for a walk tonight. I wish I had NY sidewalks and Washington beach dreams. Rain, cement, noise, and on the flick, a green, lit, acreage of dirt, tree's, and bamboo. And xylophones. And water.

Huggies noise. Huggies will hold two pounds of streetwalker bullshit you know? Fuck pdx would be fun tonight. It's time to invite the clan down for another night at the Magic Garden, and drinking of whiskey on the forbidden rooftop of a downtown motel.