Waste Is A D.J.

One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an irritable bowel. Twenty-five feet of digestive tissue failing to cope with vanilla soft serve despite tongues insistence on said treat being just what I needed. The night’s unsatanly storm clears just in time for a final soak from The Kid's transport to my door. Having hours ago put on our Wednesday worst we ventured east for fashion and poon and general weirdness and a free nights rest at the local lockup. Road obscuring rain and pupil dilating lightning provide entertainment and relief at the finally come apocalypse. Being a conscientious observer of rituals archaic and terrible, we have no fear of the tempests black diapason; it's the other douchebags on the road we're worried about. While on the topic of douchebaggery musings wander to the club d.j. and our mutual antipathy towards said douchebags. In the past, I've lamented both the loss of humanity in industry to technology and the lessened role of the album in the shitpod generation but cannot wait for shitpod playlists to completely replace the talentless fucktards screaming their name and the start of ladies hour during which ladies drink for free. Date rape included at no extra charge. Falling just below mimes but above restaurant magician the club d.j.'s only responsibility is to play new song, new song, remix of relatively recent song, old song once derided but now considered kitsche without forgetting to put the needle at the right spot. Foreboding weather, real country dark and misanthropy synergize in our guttiwuts to form a sinister anti-desire to enter our disco destination. Promises were made to our fauxshionista client and despite my not having made any I'm only the passenger and have little choice. Arriving at the mudpit parking lot, we saunter. Over muscled doorprick demands remuneration. Being the designer of the evening's promotional material The Kid is appalled. What is clearly going to be a legendary argument begins. Not sharing his love of verbal fisticuffs, I scuttle to the car in search of a battering ram. The only item of a suitable size in The Kid's transport is a thrift store Shrek doll destined for the internet auctions. Deeming it suitable I bum rush the door. In a haze of green fur and hair gel twenty minutes of bad craziness commences. With clubfolk running to and fro in a panic The Kid and I make a hasty retreat, satisfied with the mayhem. En route to our transport two birds of acceptable body fat percentages and agreeable dispositions express appreciation for our antics. Pleasantries are short but concise and they fill our backseat. A provision stop is necessary, as we've expended a majority of our debaucherous energies. The twenty four hour convenience store contains all we need to prepare for engaging in depravity of the highest order but during his long and intense coffee ritual one of the dirty birds fails to laugh at a Modigliani reference, rendering The Kid flaccid and frustrated. Undeterred but understanding I agree to leave empty handed and full balled. The frozen treats do much to lighten our moods, as does the belting of upbeat new wave and The Dead Kennedy's. At the alleyway I call home, the goodbyes are short and possibly final as I fully expect to void my soul directly after my bowels. One minute to three in the morning. Goodbye cruel poop.

Puppy Waste

One quarter of an hour to one in the morning and it's just me, a handful of blues, a mouthful of taquito and a fistful of someone elses dollars. The dissolution of romance with Lady Vapor leaves every available vagina within cock's reach in danger. Fortunately my cock's reach is insignificant and available vagina's few. Greasy fingered typing, tympanic shattering volume, declining string instrument simulation rank, pending vagrancy, becoming Ace Face, masturbation hindering obligation, people. One quarter of an hour to one in the morning. Mute ants.

Express Train To Waste

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and a stolen bag of Cashew Lovers Poppycock. Shiftless, obstinate mind ignores nagging deadline for collegiate portfolios for which my future calls me asshole. It forgets the day’s charitable actions. Venturing into society for the exchange of legal tender for a replacement epilating device, prohibitively long lines of contemptuous shrews, inarticulate beer guts and feckless youths result in immediate evacuation of the outside world. A small odiferous boy calls out to me in stentorian tones from behind a shopping cart full of what appears to be discarded junk turns out to be charitable junk offered at the high, high price of just seven greenbacks. That is to say the little bastard was peddling dollar store garbage for a charity likely of Dickensian intention. His efforts are great and commendable and at a level unseen in even the most high end of capitalist shit holes so I purchase pomaceous fruit shaped scented wax. I'm no miser. With Lady Vapor and I both desiring more Lady Vapor time and The Kid playing hide and don't seek I find myself with free time and extra social juice so the train station is determined the next destination. Unaware of the hour let alone rush hour I'm met by too many people by anyone’s standards and not just mine, which I note since my standard, is any. A narrow seat made narrower by Cro-Magnon build an exceptionally polite man takes the half seat next to me but I don't mind because he looks like a five foot tall Inspector Gadget. I'm no Dr. Claw. Upon arriving, a homeless self-described ex-marine requests change but I have only bills to offer so I do. After polite conversation, he recognizes me as one-half of the scourge of Gandalf the Bum and sullenly takes leave. He thought I was a nice guy. A little closer to four in the morning. Going about my business, which is none of your business I return to the mercifully less occupied train. A man in matching arm casts sits in an opiate haze across from me. Leaving his bags after getting off a scumbag piece of shit immediately begins eating their contents, which I hope with all of my black heart, is filled with A.I.D.S. and chemical castration. Last come first fucked on a man eat man train ride. I'm no cannibal. Attempting to escape the primal urge for charitable violence, I relocate. My new car is filled with bridge and tunnel hipsters of impressive dedication to self-labeling fashion. A cursory glance reveals the largest male leering at my tender man frame with lustful gluttony from behind his red and white checkered neck scarf. The internets provides no answer as to what homosexual fetish subculture a red neck scarf signifies. Fortunately, he lacks the courage to approach and I arrive unmolested. Getting into my automobile I run out of social juice and good graces and begin to feel dangerous again. Driving too fast trouble is determined the next destination. Four in the morning. I'm a highway star.

A Hard Day's Waste

One quarter of an hour to nine in the morning and it's just me and a bus replete with people. Nineteen carriers of virion and bacilli long forgotten by spoiled hermitic immune system. Inapt white blood cells dust off long dormant antibodies that call me asshole for interruption of respite despite their comparatively merciful job in relation to scent receptors. My olfactory is union and works hard. No odor, bodily or otherwise, goes unnoticed. That is to say this thing fucking reeks. Zoological observations of Homosapiens on the many recent adventures in public transportation further misanthropic desires for the extinction thereof excluding yours falsely and several thousand mating partners of the most pleasing genetics and loosest morals. That is to say me and some trim. A little closer to nine in the morning. Supervillainous ideologies take a backseat to the safe return of keys to a too small kiosk in the local center of commerce I once called job. Nine minutes, sixty-three seconds to nine in the morning. No money, no problems.

The Blind Wastemaker

One quarter of an hour to three in the afternoon and it's just me and five dirty fingernails. Uneven keratin sullied by the ultrasonically removed dead flesh, dried perspiration, soap scum and putrefied bodily fluids found on the backs of the timepieces of imperfect strangers. Putrid black stains of recent gainless employment in the local center of capitalism. Energies typically reserved for getting out of bed, not writing, preventing the self termination of metabolic functions, acquiring amphetamines, string instrument simulation and masturbation are spent on arriving on "time" to public transportation pick up locations, preventing termination of obdurate customers' metabolic functions, acquiring profits, human simulation and masturbation. Not being a great lover of people and being unafraid of unethical or criminal endeavors unethically bamboozling people would seem a criminal endeavor right down my alley but my interests lie solely in avoiding folks, not fucking them. I'm no Tony Robbins. A little closer to three in the afternoon. Economic benefits are meager and fast being outweighed by emotional hindrances. Perhaps I will find a million dollars on the bus. Three minutes to three in the afternoon. Or a pistol.

The Waste That Feeds

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and a bag of helianthus annuus achenes. Five point two five ounces of lip searing, mouth blistering deliciousness. Long ignored web log nags and Joanna Newsom's until diligence is inured. A busy month of nothing but independent cinema restlessness, life evaluation and genital chafing lends itself to not enough good stuff for suant creation. That is to say; no shit done, no shit written. Quasi-truth. Many sessions of simulated musicality with Smelly and The Kid peppered with the occasional fondling of Lady Vapor account for time spent constructively, not including time spent constructing excuses for not being constructive. I'm no Bob the Builder. Ten minutes to six in the morning. As the six hundred eighty eighth best guitar simulation performer, I've little time for writing. There's not getting laid to be done.

Waste A Little Dream For Me

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and three sheets of hydrogen bonded cellulose on which the first draft of the first chapter of the first chronicling of The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo are written. Reeling, unsure mind fails to convert symbols into language due to having roused only minutes ago from the sleeping prison of itself. That is to say I had bad dreams. Pellucid sensory hallucinations whose only tells are stripped psychological defenses. Forced to endure unfiltered morosity I crumble then wake to waking, scream bloody truth and wake again. Despite the universality of these experiences, it's your misfortune and none of my own so I don't give a shit. I'm no Oprah. A little closer to six in the morning. Possessing an amount of time disproportionate to things with which to fill that time attempts are made to endure the finest Oscar worthy works of fart. "Before The Devil Knows You're Dead" and "The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford" display reverse gestalt attributes while "No Country For Old Men" and "There Will Be Blood" arouse whatever bits of brain evolved to handle arousal of that nature. The quasi-autobiographical semi bullshit total genius of collaborative efforts with The Kid take center stage in a no ring circus; contained within its rants and accounts of criminal activity phrases such as "moralless compass" and "giant man hands" all but guarantee success in prison libraries. Six minutes to six in the morning. Has it really been so long? That's what she said.

Waste Exhibit

One quarter of an hour to three in the morning and it's just me and an ice pack. Refrigerant filled plastic sac meant to provide relief to battered scrotum manages only to coalesce antecedent pain with cold searing for which my gonads call me asshole. Missives of discomfort travel to upright brains from hanging ones so I dispose of the offending cryotherapeutic aid. Several attempts at creative expression end in more self abuse than words written so I try my hand at the paradoxical art movement inspired by me, anti-ideaism. Developed by The Kid anti-ideaism consists fundamentally of repeating anti-ideaism as much as possible and not creating under the philosophy that any ideations have previously been ideated and if not it's because they weren't worth ideating to begin with. That is to say it's all been done so don't do shit. Four hundred thirty eight chants later, a lewd idea forms and I realize I've been lilting panty I needs 'em for half an hour. A little closer to three in the morning. Hermitic urges conflict with vagabond tendencies. Food and wanderlust no longer strong enough motivators for travel marital status and solitude leave no means of discovering how quotidian lust would fare. That isn't to say there's anything ordinary about my lust. I'm no Mrs. Grundy. Lengths of "time" and low quantity of fingers when tabulating trends of affection depresses but I can't help whose flesh chemically pleases my gray matter without the help of genital duping ethanol but that's a lot of work and really who has the time? Eight minutes to three in the morning. I’ve much nothing to do.

The Boy Who Cried Waste

One quarter of an hour to half past six in the morning and it's just me and a shitty romance novel. Aching fatigued mind glancing over too many pages of middle-aged homemaker escapism. Freshly returned from first excursion to the outside world in several rotations of Earth I make plans to make it several more rotations until the next. I'm no claustrophobe. Too many servings of boiled semolina dough metabolizing in my digestive tract purveyed levels of energy my rapidly decreasing mass hasn't had for months leading to particularly altitudinous sense of primordial malevolence making normal gait a perfectly postured animal saunter and limbs feel lithe despite one hundred thirteen million three hundred ninety eight thousand ninety two point five milligram frame. That is to say I'm feeling tough. Driving at a speed reckless by even James Dean's incorporeal standards I think those at my destination fortunate I'm sans Jack Daniels. Ambling in from a side entrance concurrent with another patron from a front entrance I muster an aura unfriendly as is possible without a darker skin tone or firearms. The male, naively unaware of his status as omega quickens his pace to the counter but my entrance was closer, rendering me the next in line by default and without that fucktarded half run. Finally realizing his status in our temporary pack I prepare to order but the infection currently inhabiting my maxillary and ethmoid sinus cavities imparts a nasal gargle to my vocal emissions which the omega quickly utilizes to order over me before throat can be cleared. A little closer to half past six in the morning. Ahem.

Waste Gone By

One quarter of an hour to two in the morning and it’s just me and Alan Moore’s Watchmen. Twelve volumes of dystopian misanthropy previously written off unread as likely overrated mediocrity fractures precedent by paralleling its reputation. I’m no east. Since the permanent malfunction of my mobile computing device creation is slow going. The current location of my temporary computing solution is open and too expansive and leaves me feeling surveilled despite complete solitude. I never plained myself the picky sort but you learn something new to you but not to someone brighter every day like Neosporin is safe for use on external genitalia. That is to say ew. A little closer to two in the morning. Arbitrary measurements of “time” signal the end of a full orbit around the Devil Eye but it’s been happening for longer than homo-sapiens have squandered the Earth so I fail to see the big deal. It’s a poor excuse for destroying a person’s liver every thirty-first of December. I’m no lush. Five minutes to two in the morning. Absolut bullshit.

Waste On The Dotted Line

One quarter of an hour to seven in the morning and it’s just me and a neoteric portable communication device. Four point one ounces of not enough good shit to illicit consumers high or quell illogical attachment to previous much beloved material good. Days of calculating the most fiscally responsible cellular solution whilst futilely attempting to exclude my perverted lust for the now former communication device from consideration combined with bounteous dosages of amphetamines result in the formation of Pierrot’s theorem; year born (f) over standard units of time since f (u) multiplied by the Lorentz Inverse Fractal Equation equals 0. That is to say f u life. I’m no Pythagoras. A little closer to seven in the morning. Eldritch bird songs emanating from my right ass cheek connote word from the corporation I’m now contractually obligated to for half a year longer than any object of affection has had to endure my mauling but the corporation doesn’t mind mystery or heartless sleeves so long as I can verify my social security number. I’m no landscaper. Being available to Lady Vapor’s sexual harassment is the only calculable advantage to contractual depression but absence makes the genitals grow fonder so time won’t tell because imaginary concepts are incapable of speech. Conference with The Kid during business hours of time zones we don’t live in concludes with each remaining true to their preferred –ism. The Kid’s being real-, mine being pessim-. Two minutes one hundred twenty seconds to seven in the morning. Hope stings eternal.

Straight To The Waste

One quarter of an hour to seven in the morning and it's just me and a pilfered pair of panties. One solid garment of gossypium fiber trimmed with machine appliquéd lace containing the deoxyribonucleic acid of a recent target of desire. Their placement in my hand and not covering the genitals of their owner signifies a good night was recently had. That is to say I got laid. Seven hundred twenty minutes ago the encounter commenced. Seven weeks ago the exchanges commenced. Wit and filth encrypted by software and sent to pixilated windows incited rare interest despite contrary natures of vapid materialism and vagrant morosity. Efforts in self-improvement doubled but goals remained unmet at time of aforementioned encounter due to irresistible will destroying lasagna so insecurity runs high. I'm no Narcissus. A little closer to seven in the morning. Digital communication having thus far been our only form thereof we meet publicly at her behest. I don't do butterflies so when her visage comes into view I'm clear enough to decide I want to kiss her. She's appealing to my astigmatic visual receptors with an agreeable body fat percentage adequately displayed via form enhancing attire. That is to say she's fucking gorgeous. Closer proximity reveals a scent pleasing to my secondary chemical sense. My remaining three senses are comparably satisfied by the exchange of expectoration and concurrent moan. Keratin strands are pulled slightly. Torsos are pressed together. Having dropped chemistry in High School I'm unfamiliar with where ours falls on the periodic table but Mohs scale is the more appropriate measurement anyway. Sexual frustration derived from weeks of illicit correspondence boil over and more bodily fluids are shared before a meal is. Then a meal is. Then more fluids are and unmentionables are swiped for posterity. I kissed and told. I'm no Atlantic Starr. Four minutes to seven in the morning. The target telecommunicates to whisper sins and debauchery. This one’s a keeper.

Unfiltered Waste

One quarter of an hour to who gives a fuck when and it's just me. Splintered, far away mind circles unanswerable quandaries brought about by incurable mental dysfunctions. When simply existing is misery and anything beyond even more miserable how do I? The Kid once offered the reasonable solution of terminating my own metabolic functions as he too saw no solution. Trying and failing once was enough in keeping with my quitting ways. Half of one-half of a century of seeking remedies spiritual, herbal, carnal and pharmaceutical dead ends at current non-state. That is to say, praying, toking, fucking and medicating did fuck all. Copulation at least satiates primal drives kept restrained for society's sake. Targets for desire being rarer than want of social interaction primal drives often go unsated. I'm no socialite. Devoid of wants, hopes, material goods and concern for status, Buddha would be proud but life is less forgiving. Dr. Jeung would see me devouring endless bottles of anti-depressants but I love my cock too much. If I loved my writing that much you'd be reading this in a paperback likely picked up by accident from a bargain bin. Three minutes to seven in the morning. I don't give a fuck. Accepting your problem is the first step to ignoring it.

The Sirens of Waste

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and an empty bottle of hydrogen dioxide. Non-biodegradable, phallically stretch blown polyethylene terephthalate incites zero guilt, liberal, vogue or basic human. Misanthropic, sub-proletarian sensibility interprets environmentalism as a last ditch bid to save self over habitat since terrestrial spheroids are exceedingly difficult to demolish. Humanity's no Death Star. The recent demise of my mobile computing device renders time operose in keeping with its inverse proportion to activity. That is to say I have a lot of time and not a whole lot of shit to do. Abandoned by technology I'm depressingly cognizant of how little I write. This temporary computing device proves ill suited for creative expression and inevitable chagrin. I'm no Vonnegut. Seven minutes to six in the morning. Meh.

Misty Mountain Waste

One quarter of an hour to six months ago and it's just me and a nineteen ninety three Ford Escort LX. Livid, exasperated mind glancing over two thousand four hundred ninety one pounds of barely functioning, bright green death trap. The fading blue inspection sticker on the windshield displays numbers signifying a date recently past and I call the digits asshole for sequential failure. That is to say I needed to get my car inspected. I'm no criminal. Being mechanically unsound the law won't open the front door to road legality so I place calls for directions to a rear entrance. I'm no law abider. The ambiguously foreign chauffeur of a wealthy genetic relation is willing to put me in contact with a mechanic of ill repute. They cater to dying yellow hire cars, ensuring their ability to terrify pedestrians, reek of mysterious odors likely of human origin and survive suicidal traffic maneuvers. It's an immoral job but someone has to profit from it. Not wanting to traverse the distance unescorted I utilize my immoderately opulent portable communication device. Nine hundred megahertz signals relay through ozone from cellular tower to cellular tower. Jack Daniels' immoderately prodigious portable communication device receives and reconfigures data into my request for company which he accepts. That is to say we ride. A little further from six months ago. The distance from point of origin to destination is roughly sixty miles. Initial minutes pass in silence as Jacks coffee ritual is intense and requires all of his senses to complete. Subsequent minutes pass fluently and the den of mechanical iniquity is easily found. A small seemingly Middle Eastern man refers to me disturbingly as "papi" when informing me of the more disturbing malfunction of their inspection device. The towel less towel head ensures me a matter of hours is all he requires so I grant it. I'm no troublemaker. Jack Daniels and I wander about midtown Manhattan and discuss the human form as soul stifling confinement when an Indian rubber ball strikes me across the forehead. Pale legs carry a pre-adolescent boy to retrieve his trinket. Apologies and an introduction is mumbled. He's Johnny and he's sorry, he has A.I.D.S. Figuring life has hit him harder than I could I pardon the unintentional assault of my visage. My body is a cage, his is a concentration camp. A.I.D.S. Johnny is cheerful and invites us to a game of handball. At mere mention of competition Jack's brain releases aggression inducing adrenaline. Terminal illness or not he's going to fucking destroy this kid. He's no camp counselor. Fortunately for the dying boy a familiar face enters my field of vision. Despite his thirst for win I decline for the both of us and point out a hirsute homeless honky. His hair and beard are long and grey and scraggly and majestic. His proboscis is long and crooked and red from ethanol. Unmistakable as Coca Cola or a perfect posterior it's Gandalf the Bum. When our familiar faces enter his field of vision he runs. At last encounter his fortified wine fortified our appetites for destruction. Much darts and fisticuffs ensued. Overworked liver metabolized the offending material and with clear heads our missing wallets went noticed. That is to say we'd been had. Finding Gandalf with a fresh stock of Night Train infuriated. His denials were convincing but wizards are a crafty bunch. Several shots to the ribs revealed his verity though the damage was done. Fuck it. Six minutes to one quarter of an hour six months ago. Fickle technology ultimately prevented the illegal legalization of my death trap despite four hours spent idle in Midtown Manhattan. Having known their repute was ill I should have expected. I'm no fortune teller.

Waste Is All We Need

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and a blank monitor. A glowing, white plastic rectangle of helically arranged liquid crystals ready to form the Mona Lisa but more likely to form the round posteriors of pornographically arranged females. The Untold Tales of Jack Daniels and The Fabulous Machismo persist as just that proving I'm no writer. Fortunately reduced caloric intake and physical exertion both aerobic and anaerobic will soon render me sexually appealing enough to rope an elderly care taker. That is to say a sugar momma. Misanthropy. Perusing available companions depresses and distances. A rational mind coming first with emotional attachment in a far off last and sentiment disqualified for getting in the way of a good time. I'm no Cyrano de Bergerac. A little closer to six in the morning. Deficiencies in social acceptance are deferred by an obnoxious demeanor. Laugh at the strange man before you realize he isn't kidding. In a world of fit in or fuck off misfits outfit themselves in recognizable uniforms so as to be easily identified as the label of their choice. When the outsiders live in the over-culture where do the wanderers wander? Twenty four hours, two minutes, one hundred twenty seconds to six in the afternoon. Don't forget the accent over the e when you call me cliché.

Will Waste For Food

One quarter of an hour to four in the morning and it's just me and Ivan Ilyich. Sixty pages of Russian pseudo-Christian quasi-nihilist proof that homo-sapiens are ceiling fans. Several works of fiction begin to take shape under the contrived umbrella of interconnectedness. A cop-out to avoid the individual attention each demands for which they all call me asshole. Stories of life are unpublishably short but I've no patience for filler so in short they go unpublished. I'm no Stephen King. A little closer to four in the morning. A journey to the concrete jungle yields disappointment. With empty cup and moleskine cahier I attempt to busk but to passers by I appear to be just sitting there so the cup remains unburdened. That is to say I don't make shit. Fortunately independent wealth keeps all boats afloat in a sea of something metaphorically relevant. Fact or fiction? I'm no reliable narrator. Being physically repulsive leaves mystery my only option for attracting hapless victims but you can't catch fish with question marks so I'm not fucked. What am I doing with my life? Four in the morning. What does it matter?

My Waste Is A Good Life

One quarter of an hour to six in the morning and it's just me and unused wood pulp. Eighty pages of hydrogen bonded cellulose free of graphite content despite carping inner voices begging for text. Attempts at fiscal gain via literature continue to elude despite no effort. I'd settle for a completed work of fiction but millions of pieces of green paper would not be unacceptable. I'm no hippie. A little closer to six in the morning. Vagabond Prose. Misnomer. I never go anywhere. Hermitic living is contrary to titular claims but hermit has a shitty ring to it and crustacean connotations. I'm no crab. Given my stylistic tendencies Purple Prose would be apt but purple signifies royalty. I'm no king. Periods of time spent not leaving the house leads to forgetting initial reasons for seclusions. Excursions into society remind me. One minute to six in the morning. My hell is a good life.

A Kiss To Build A Waste On

One quarter of an hour to two in the afternoon and it's just me and a clear red bottle of amphetamine salts. Sleepless, stagnating mind counting and recounting thirty periwinkle bumblebees full of not enough good shit to enhance dopaminergic activity. Six hours of sleep in seventy two hours of life leaves me cursing the devil eye and aching for slumber but my rhythm is non-circadian so I diddle my shame instead. I'm no monk. A little closer to two in the afternoon. Manipulating my erogenous zones does nothing to quell the recent and surprising want of affection. Customary hugs for genetic relations are par for the course but the course ends there. You sign your correspondences with x's and o's, I sign mine with f’s and u's. Flesh on flesh preserved for those whose flesh I want my flesh in without exception. That is to say those I want to fuck, those being few and far between. I'm no town bicycle. The next fully formed bipedal of my species with acceptable levels of imperfections and the only acceptable level of infectious disease I get within arms reach of will be the target of my ardor. Canoodling, exchange of expectoration and copulation are acceptable individually or in succession. Three minutes to two in the afternoon. Believe what you read. If getting close is undesirable stay away. I'm no monk.

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.