I was up by 630 this morning, didn’t get to sleep till just a few hours ago. I was nervous about my test results. I had to go into the doctor’s office and discuss what’s going on. I can’t sleep when I have to wake up early because it pisses me off to know I have to get up early.
I’m convinced I’m fucked up in several ways. I have been having chest pains, tight chest, shortness of breath, possible ulcer, fatigue, insomnia, my left nut retracts way deep into my body when I do Kegel exercises, the taste of blood in my mouth, and I have a weird lump on the inside of my lip. I constantly think I’m dying, I expected the worst, HIV, Undifferentiated Schizophrenia, diabetes, face cancer…
I have been chain smoking American Spirits for the last two years and drinking like a homeless Indian hanging out at an ancestral graveyard. I found myself in a deep spiral of uselessness and sporadic depression after coming back from the Middle East as a botched journalist. I made no impact, maybe I am just incapable of it, maybe I didn’t try hard enough. And I didn’t even get a chance to be vain. I never learned to enjoy failing when I should have. It’s always there. I had one success story in Lebanon, but when things started going down, its hard to recover and that’s when I started smoking again.
I had two articles published in the Lebanon Daily Star, one was an anniversary of thousands of people gone missing during the Civil War, and the other some 80 word blurb about some guy who drove off an overpass and died. The blurb I got totally wrong in the paper. I eventually stopped showing up to the Star because everyone was a total shithead. I kept getting evil stares from some mean looking Leb who sat right across from me. It was bay far the worst newsroom experience I had.
Here’s the big ruse, I tell everyone I worked for the Star but decided to quit because it was just shitty and thankless work, which is not entirely untrue. I was merely an intern, that found Beirut to be boring on most occasions, so I wrote about nothing., just got drunk. I don’t know if they thought I was some CIA agent or because I drank all their instant coffee.
They stopped giving me assignments and they refused to kick me out so I used their internet till I got tired of it and left for good. I thought while walking the streets of Beirut, everyone is smoking here, fuck it I’ll pick it back up again. I had been smoking the narghila on the daily and getting excruciating headaches from not getting that fix. I had to find something to help those times in between. So I started smoking Davidoffs.
June 8th I fly back home with my tail between my legs like I had just failed at everything, at life. Its hard to know you suck at life. I’m chain smoking rollies of prison quality tobacco and working two jobs to atone for squandering every penny I had. I started to decline.
Then I got a gig as a Northern California Bureau Chief for a company that deals in rape. I thought I had the skill-set they were looking for, this wasn’t the case. I am still undergoing therapy, for wasting 18 months of my life in that panopticon. After I quit I volunteered for a month at the Sacpress but that shit sucks harder than a fat kid destroying Mountain Dew Slurppee from 7-11. The Sacpress is like the Cliff Notes to the Cliff Notes to The Bee, but with way more River Cats coverage. There’s my press career wrapped up in a few paragraphs, and its been years of worthless bullshit. It took me the last two years to realize every publication in the world sucks.
There’s more accomplishment for traveling entrepreneurs, charging 200 dollars a head to teach website optimization, than my shit press career. So I drank and smoked like a competitive eater.
During a friend’s wedding I drank about 45 chimneys of Anchor Steam and chain smoked with some professional dancer who does private bartending on the side to make ends meet. This was when shit falls apart on me physically, the beginning of the end for my health. The next day I was crippled with stomach pain. I thought a Ghoulie may have plagued my stomach with larvae that had sharp fetus teeth, gnawing away. I made an appointment a couple weeks later.
The Doctor’s office:
The doctor said “…well… the chest X-Ray looks good…”
…and what about the rest of the tests? Fuck what did he find in my blood? Probably some weird shit I got from that teenager I had sex with a few years ago. I was wasted offa Bulleit whiskey, she kept pouring it into my wine glass. We found a room, got naked, the condom broke. She was cute but had a weird body odor, from the armpits which freaked me out. Maybe it was the sex I wasn’t having that fucked me up? I haven’t had sex since March when I got cut-off. I was getting ignored, fuck it, it was bound to happen. Maybe it was some bacterial infection I had on my hand after touching a door knob, or the bottom of my shoes then deciding to jack off without washing my hands first. Maybe I was finally diabetic? I don’t know…”You’re blood tests are fine. Your Cholesterol is fine, Your HDL numbers are perfect. Ummm I suspect that you have been dealing with anxiety off and on over the last few years, and what we need to decide now is if you want to go on any medication.” I looked at him for being so nonchalant about my mental illness. I have mental issues and I have to decide whether I’m fucked up enough to decide to take drugs or not. There isn’t a single thing wrong with me physically, but my mental health will chip away at that soon enough if I decide not to do anything about this. I told the doc that I would do more research on stress and anxiety and that I wasn’t ready to go on medication yet. I’ve already pounded enough Valium in my day to kill a rabid fighting bull in some dusty ring in Jalisco, Mexico. Too many drugs might very well be the source of my problems. Ok the good news, I’m fine. Mentally I might have something going on.
Driving down Sunrise, I was unable to concentrate on my music which is rare, I guess I was stressing about having anxiety and how its going to fuck up my romantic relationships. What few I had or will have, the future looks infinitely dimmer. No woman wants a guy with mental issues. Cool scars from being slashed in the face with broken beer bottles while protecting some fair maiden is far preferable. Scars are the historical water marks of a real alpha male. Not some guy who worries too much about the devolution of everyday language use and dwindling speaking abilities of the common man. Maybe I can turn all this into some heavily veiled complexity and find the woman that thinks my fucked up mind issues is raw esoteric intelligence.
I drive past an ass-load of empty buildings, that banks used to occupy, then a Smash Burger and then I get nauseous. I rummage around my car for a pack of Tums, and eat two. I can’t tell if its stress at this point of coffee on an empty stomach. I’m eating that shit either way.
I freak out because I wake up everyday knowing I live in a world that not only supports, but sustains the Steve Wilkos show. These fucking people are everywhere like an alien race that has descended on earth, but you can’t tell who the aliens are…Jesus what are the ratings like for this to stay on the air? I’m glad I don’t know anyone who watches this shit. But the people who watch this show are way more fucked up than me At this point in the game
I have a problem with taking weird mind drugs that either pacify me or force me into glazed eyeballs and bliss. Once I’m satisfied I’ll stop trying, I’ll stop thinking, I’ll stop worrying, I’ll stop being a human being with feelings. He majority of my feelings and worries are centered around hate and disgust, but I’d rather feel that than nothing. I might even start smoking.