Waste Is A Battlefied

One quarter of an hour to one in the morning and it's just me and a bag of candy coated chocolate flavored candy. Ravenous, slavering oral cavity grinding plastic tube after plastic tube of shit my body doesn't need into shit my taste buds love. Furious pants call me asshole for this, my one hundred forty second gram of a one hundred forty two gram bag. I'm no supermodel. A little closer to one in the morning, nerves send missives of pain to the grey jelly above my man tits, a dull reminder of the night before this. I headed out with pugilistic intentions. Feel like a man. Fight in the street. I'm no tough guy. Fortunately they aren't hard to come by. Testosterone meat sacks at this bar or that with rapidly metabolizing liver hardening ethanol activating useless primitive instincts. Useless. Unnecessary for turning a key, pressing a button or utilizing modern exorbitance. Target acquired. Ill fitting garment? Dot. Excessive display of precious metals? Dot. Impressive physique? Dot. Too drunk to fuck but drunk enough to fight? Dot. No initiation is necessary. I'm bearded in black, out of place. Profane thoughts are expressed. Bad language makes you look stupid but makes me look brilliant. I place a starboard gripping appendage to his portside thoracic cavity with enough force to shatter something mildly difficult to shatter but within the realm of human capability. Always strike first. Several more gripping and walking appendages were placed on several more delicate body parts before the end. Fight in the street. Feel like an asshole. He probably deserved it. I did. Two minutes to one in the morning. Close enough.

Buckets of Waste

One quarter of an hour beyond five in the morning and it's just me and "Blood On the Tracks". Ten tracks of bohemian heart break by a lanky hebe giving folk-fags more orgasms than Jack Elliot. I've just finished a thorough testicle scratching session. Emotional and chemical joy is impossible to come by so I do my best to horseradish the physical. Sometimes if I hit just the right spot everything melts away. I hit some hidden nerve as yet undocumented by science that releases opiates unheard of in modern or ancient culture that peels away the illusory walls of conscious. Time, dimensions and euphoria are made wrinkly flesh, mine to manipulate with grubby fingers and uneven keratin. Then, being human and unready for the approaching enlightenment I'm lurched back to the physical and realize I've peeled away not only reality but several layers of skin and the stinging ensues. Hurts so good. One thousand three hundred twenty seconds beyond five in the morning. Ouch.

On The Waste

One quarter of an hour to five in the morning and it's just me and lesbian pornography. Thirty seven point eight four gigabytes of easily countable women defiling each other for my viewing shame. A recent desire to engage in simulated guitar sessions was nearly sated just hours ago. Alas, virtual instrumentation was not to be mine. An overworked originator of The Kid's required relative silence for optimal typing conditions. The box of silicon and copper that is her overseer demands it. Available seating in my place of residence is limited to a pile of shoddy wood and torn fabric designed to dislocate vertebrae and ravage lumbars or the ceiling. My place of residence is unsuitable. I'm unaware of any hidden meta-anatomy in Smelly or The Kid that would allow them to take seat on a ceiling. They're no Spider-Man. Instead, a convergence on The Kid's abode was organized via portable communication device and an excursion to the nearest corporate book store/cafe/stage/shit hole ensued. After selecting several travel books to study a potential get-a-away to Europe drinks were drank. Two dirty bean waters and a root beer. The barista revealed to me that she lived for a time in the north of France. However, her body fat percentage was unacceptable so I didn't give a fuck. Standards being double are society’s problem, not mine. A little closer to five in the morning. Travel books I can't afford stir wonder at my intentions to get to the places they recommend. Even bismuth subsalicylate is an expense beyond my tax bracket. That is to say I’m poor. With bowels as irritable as mine perhaps my diet is up for a performance review. I'm no nutritionist. The seven days a week twenty four hours a day convenience store of my preference has changed their frozen mini taco-esque wrap recipe anyway. Two minutes to five in the morning. Red cow flesh, pig meat, fried flesh of any kind, lipids, dairy foodstuffs, grains whole and processed, canned and/or microwaveable deliciousness. Everything I eat. Nothing I should eat. I'm no nutritionist. Fuck vegetables.

A Good Night's Waste

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and the internets. Restless, racing mind glancing over a billion petabytes of filth flarn filth and 50% of the digital population sharing information between sessions of self abuse and the other 50% demanding they cite a source while self abusing. The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo needs writing but I'm no writer so it stays neglected and I call it asshole for existing half formed and fully nagging. I'm no writer. A little closer to four in the morning and I'm still not feeling so great. Slept for twelve hours, could've slept more but guilt at lonely, neglected originators who brought rapidly cooling sustenance berates me until I rouse. Ate too much chinc food, a gooky meal of nothing my body needs and it lets me know. Atrophying muscles are shaky and weak like in my dreams. Lack of exercise, withdrawals or something worse? Two and a half pounds of caffeine infused liquid sugar does nothing to quell the shaking or dreamlike mindset so I sleep more. Too much sleep is no good for you but great for me. Getting up and sitting to write infuriates and depresses. Life isn't for me. Unfortunately two and a half thousand milligrams of tramadol failed to kill me and varying doses of extended release methylphenidate fails to cure me. Varying doses. Originally prescribed 18mg by the slanty eyed impostor at Inquisition Charities. I varied the doses of my own desperate accord when 18mg did fuckall. Varied; 18, 18, 36, 54, 72, 90, nothing. Fuck you Dr. Jeung and the dumpling you rode in on. Don't get me right, I love homo-sapiens from the Asiatic nations as much as I love homo-sapiens from any nation. That is to say not at all. Take it personally. Five minutes to four in the morning. How many seconds is that? I'm no mathematician. 300.