I hate everything tonight. I hate the world, I hate my friends. I hate myself. And all I can do now is drink more whiskey because I am out of drugs but for some crumbly blue pills that may have been prescribed for someone's pet. The night will be hell.
All my friends are having fun. My Yosemite friend just bought about $150,000 worth of pick up truck and travel trailer. Maybe more. Another friend writes from France, from Germany. My travel buddy just flew to Atlanta to see a Picasso/Calder exhibit. Some have been touring the homelands. Others are camping or frolicking at the seashore.
They all say, "Don't be a pussy. . . get out and go."
No one understands. Nope.
"You are lucky to have such a son." That is what my mother's friends tell her. But I don't think she feels lucky. There is no indication from her of that. What the fuck else would I be doing?
I tell no one of my own debilitating ailments.
My entire being is in guilty rebellion.
Those photos I looked at . . . the ones of Ili and me. . . they disgust me. I am hideous.
I am cursed.
* * *
That is what I desperately wrote last night before bed. Not much has changed since then. I get up, my mother gets up. She shuffles and sighs and moans and bangs pill bottles, water glasses, and coffee cups against counter tops and tables. The television comes on. The hideous intonations of commercial t.v.
It is not my mother. It is the world. Really. Try this.
This is the soundtrack of contemporary life. What sort of people listen to this? I can't go to Walgreens any longer. They have taken to blasting inane music to make the shopping experience more miserable.
I'm tired of my coffee maker. The coffee goes cold much quicker now. Impossible, I know. There is something wrong with me. But I want hotter coffee.
I have no joy. No happiness.
I try to persevere.
I cannot endure.
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