It’s probably comparable to the way a bulimic feels after choking down a bag of Oreos, sobbing, wishing they could stop…determined to finish what they had begun, knowing what will soon follow.
Honestly…take up jogging. What’s a hard body with an eroded smile?
…
I want to watch a movie, an old affirming myclassic like Eternal Sunshine or Vanilla Sky or Magnolia. Something heavy that finds its way to sink back in, to unwind the damage Netflix has done, catching up on the piles of shit I avoided in the first place. Or maybe cheat, just a fast-forward to the last 5 or so minutes of Tenenbaums…or to drift off to the ice dance in Ed Scissorhands or anything animated Brad Bird…
But I don’t…and am not…or can’t. Not tonight, clearly again and late on a late Sunday night, I find myself searching. Instead of movies, I let beats fuck my skull until something comes. What’s playing now? Spitting Venom, a song that almost earlier received it’s own post. Something along the lines of driving the 101 at 80 mph at 2:02 am, nearly getting run off the road by Hollywood’s finest drunk and drugged, on my way home to bed, to see someone…or the idea of it and marking in my mind the rare occurrence of a song I will from that moment remember hearing for the first time for the rest of my life and being one swallow from disappearing tears into the black leather of my steering wheel…
Because it’s a beautiful song…among other things. And baby, that’s a rare thing.
…
I’ve been working a lot lately, splitting time between two jobs that share a similar theme. One is downtown called Blue Velvet. The other is in Beverly Hills, Blue on Blue. And no, I’m not dipshit enough to make that intentional. I work six shifts a week (with room for aggressive post midnight drunks…though not as often as should be required) and make fists of money because I fucking hustle and have implanted into my head that this is the best thing to support the choices I have made in my life…
Past choices like jetting around the world for four months, future choices like jumping a weekend plane to Tokyo or Rio or current choices like spending 500 to fill a living room wine cooler instead of paying down said past debt.
…
Sometimes, I lay on my carpet with my back to the floor, dig my fingers into the soft and look up. When it’s not enough, I move to the porch, light a fire and steal glances at the sky. When that’s not enough, I’ll take the elevator to the roof, find a seat, cross fingers for a clear view of infinity and contemplate the meaning of growing up.
Sometimes, often…every time, I wait for the sort of company that only appears in my sleeps. She’s disheveled, cruel, filthy, unforgiving, brilliant and unintentionally romantic - - post the superficialities that got her into the party, of course. During cycles of my life, I convince myself she doesn’t exist…find out she does…am reminded the definition of cyclical…and laugh to myself…
Then I turn, find some guy in matching grey sweats setting up a boombox on the roof furniture…not far from where I’m sitting. As he begins to ferociously lap the pool, I pick up on his inspiration…”passionate” Evangelical gospel. As he passes me, I flinch, not whole-heartedly excited about the prospect of a “child of God” driving a semi to quite seriously sharp and tetanus laced object into my delicate sternum.
