Well, my friends, it probably had to happen eventually. No offense to her personally (she is really very sweet), but a newborn daughter in the other room means I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep for five weeks. And it has finally succeeded in replacing every drop of blood in me with something more like bile. No offense to you personally, but I hate you, everyone you know, and just about everything else you can think of.
I’m worn out. Running on empty. And beyond irritable. You say bucolic mountain stream. I say runny river of shit. You say fine summer’s morning. I say the wretched crack of rancid dawn. You say hello. I say goodbye. Leonard Cohen was right, there are no diamonds in the mine.
There is just pointless, exhausted rage. There is too, too, too much to do. There is work, at work, that never fucking ends. And arseholes shoving past me on the subway, on the way. In between billboards advertising NFL. (Once I went to see a game: the single drabbest spectacle I’ve ever been in front of – and, worse, scarily reminiscent of your average fascist rally; drums, marching, chanting, and everyone dressed the same.)
There are no letters in the mailbox. There are no grapes upon the vine. Just deadbeats whose names I can’t remember, because I’m… So. Fucking. Tired. And the nagging feeling – which a well-rested mind can usually keep at bay – that round every other corner lurks the most awful cunt. Oh my. That sour-faced bitch handing back your change. That lifeless sap who always stops completely at the stop sign. That thumping bore who never listens to a single thing you say. And all those cancerous bedsores who crawl about their filthy mattresses saying I’m not racist, but….
I can’t even enjoy Gordon Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares anymore. I don’t want those indolent losers to turn their wasted lives around. I don’t want the cynical machinations of reality television to fix their idiot mistakes. Nor the greedy, selfish owner to be rescued from the pathetic demise caused by his own greedy selfishness. I want him to file for bankruptcy, silently and alone – with a TV crew nowhere to be seen. Or sleep. Maybe I’ll settle for some sleep.
Let’s sing another song, boys. This one has grown old and bitter.
Today’s post soundtracked by: