I am so out of sorts today. I feel like I just tripped on the road of life. I’m self-conscious and paranoid and jittery. Somewhere I took a misstep and wound up at this weird place on the side of the road. I think I can get back on track but my mind keeps obsessing about life in the worst case scenario; the beautiful combustible heap that it would be... to just give up, let it all go to shit, be some obese homeless dude on skid row over ridden with STDs and razor bumps… just fuck it all… throw out my condoms, throw out my Body Shop Honey and Oat exfoliator along with any futile hope of obtaining some semblance of a career or love life… damn it all to hell! I’ll be “that” guy… the urban legend people will tell to their friends who have hopes of making it big when they come to Los Angeles. I’ll be a stop on some hipster bus tour of downtown L.A. as they take pictures with their Androids and iPhones and iPads of me and the other inhabitants of the avenue of broken dreams and feces pillows. We all would know at least one Madonna song by heart. We all would have at least one screenplay under our belt. We all would have been to the House of Blues at least one time.
No… I still have not been sleeping well… or eating well. I actually had every intention of going to Weight Watchers today after work but after eating three fruit pastries and two bagels with cream cheese for lunch I have decided to wait at until some of the swelling in my stomach has gone down. But who knows. Maybe I will go. As long as I’m under 250 I think I can handle it. And the best thing about going this week is… there is a good chance I’ll weigh less next week because I don’t think my eating habits could possibly get any worse at this point. And fuck anything I have ever said about the subject… I AM an emotional eater. I am so blue and dejected and lonely right now… if I could somehow inject pork chops and spaghetti into my veins I think I would go for it.
As usual the culprit for my malaise is not just one succinct factor or culprit… it’s a culmination of things that have just been swirling around for a while now and finally decided to land. Money, weight, career, love… the lack of it all, blah, blah, blah… same song, different key… I bore myself bitching about it all. I remember getting out of my car this morning, coming to work and saying to myself without the slightest bit or sarcasm or mockery, “There has GOT to be a better way to make a fucking living.” My mind automatically goes to the seeder aspects of life, thievery, prostitution, drugs, scams… it so fucked up…. IT’S SO FUCKED UP! That THOSE would be my go to solutions for life! I AM FUCKED UP! Not school, not a second job… but becoming in every consorted sense of the word… a COON.
See I took a wrong turn there somewhere… this is not the road I am usually on. How do I work this? Where is that large automobile? This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! Letting the days go by… water flowing underground… same as it ever was…
I think I’m having a heart attack… or at least in line for one. Serves me right. A few of my older friends have been having physical anomalies lately and I have snickered at the them from the back of my mind, secure in the mere 4 decades of rings in the middle of my tree trunk as opposed to their 5, 6 or 8. I guess it’s their turn to smile their sap filled grins at me a sigh unconvincingly, “Oh… it’s ok, we’re all getting older, things happen to the best of us…”
I just know that last night my right arm started to really hurt. It feels more like a muscle thing, from the my pits to my chest. Certain movements make it flare up. Right now it’s cool. Hopefully I’m not having a stroke or something. Hurt like the Dickens this morning. “Like the Dickens”. I am now the guy that uses phrases like “Like the Dickens.” WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ME!
I am also embroiled in one of the more childish fights I have ever been involved with my brother of all fucking people. I don’t know if I mentioned this, and I have a feeling I didn’t, but I walked with about 100 Black LGBT people in the MLK parade last month. The goal was for 1,000 to show up but each one us walked for another 100 that wasn’t there. I arrived at the site around 8:30 a.m. We didn’t start marching until around 1:30 p.m. In between all that time, I danced with all the young people out there. When the parade started they asked if I wanted to be on the float or walk. “I’ll walk!” I said, gleefully, “I want to walk with the youngin’s”. So I walk and dance and walk and dance and walk some more and dance some more until around 3:00 p.m. suddenly iy occurs to me that… I can’t walk… my legs have completely cramped up. I try to hoist myself up onto the flatbed only to conjure up one of the worse Charlie Horses I have ever felt in BOTH calves. I REALLY cannot walk now. I begin to panic thinking the end of the parade is two miles ahead of us, my car is three miles behind us, the float is about to take off without me. I immediately think that I am going to have to lay spread eagle on someone’s lawn until I get the feeling back in my legs. But by the grace of GOD the truck stops, the driver gets out to dance and I ask him to lower the back gate so he can… CRANE MY FAT ASS UP ONTO THE FLOAT. I ride the rest of the parade route laid out flat on the back of the flat bed truck.
I retold this whole story in much greater detail to my brother with sound effects and such and told him one of the dances I was doing was the “Dougie”. One of the big hits out on the radio right now that all the kids are listening to is called “Teach me how to Dougie”. Ever since I tell him the story, every time I post something on my Facebook page he replies, “Teach me how to Dougie!” He’s done this before… repeated some obnoxious saying over and over and over again until the flavor has run out of it like an old piece of chewing gum. The last time he did and I told him stop and he didn't, I posted pictures of extremely buff men in skimpy latex outfits on his Facebook page. He called me so upset that he was damn in tears saying that it wasn’t funny, his hardcore gangsta friends now think he's gay and that I took things too far.
So this time when he kept saying the Dougie, I remembered how I hurt his feelings were the first time… and I decided to superimpose his head on top of extremely buff men in skimpy latex outfits. This has been going on for a couple of days now and I have to say the whole thing honestly leaves me a bit worn and bewildered. At this point, it’s a test of will… who’s going to give in first. As we speak there are five gay porn star body shots on his Facebook page with his head on them… each with a warning of… stop doing the Dougie… I’ll stop posting. His response each time, “Teach me how to Dougie”. I literally have over 7,258 separate pictures of naked men (I’m a single middle aged gay man… it’s what I do). I can ride this out until retirement.
However, I feel as if I am corrupting my soul. I think it is why my arm hurts. As my sister once tried to reason with me saying, “He has so little, why not give him the Dougie.” I HATE rational people. Besides, today I found a privacy control on Facebook that will allow me to view and post/comment on my page before it goes public. I wish I would have seem that 3 days and five pornos ago.