The Hurricane in my Head

And on the seventh day, Andrew did look down upon his computers, and said that they were “good enough.”

Today is my day of rest.  I find myself not resting, though, so much as brooding.  Brooding is a common activity of late.  The fates long ago decreed that everything shitty that ever happens to me must happen to me between the months of October and March, with the rest of the year serving as reprieve from the torrential downpour of extreme humanity that characterizes this time.

Think about it, the happiest day for most people in this time period involves one of three things, and in some cases all of them combined.  One, eating massive amounts of unhealthy food.  Two, drinking massive amounts of wines and various hard liquors.  Three, commemoration of the birth of a man who was ultimately beaten, whipped, stabbed, and crucified because he thought everyone should live in peace and harmony with each other.

Fun times.

For me, the misery started at the tender age of seven, my parents having decided to announce to me their intentions of divorce on New Year’s Day, as I woke up.  Now, myself having been dumped unceremoniously for a woman before I feel a certain degree of retroactive sympathy for my father.  Still, had I been custodian of a podling at the time of my interpersonal detonation, I’d have waited to deliver the news.

I’ve had family members die, been hospitalized, and even arrested (twice!) during this time period.  Nothing too bad has happened this time out.

So now I’m some form of quantum cliche, with infinite layers of suck folding over each other into nothingness.  The hermit, the manchild, the tortured artist, the hopeless romantic, these are my faces, all of them trite and none of them true.

I sit at the keyboard, the hurricane in my head reels with ideas and emotions, a category five of intellect.  Powerful, but raw, uncontrollable, and destructive.  To take the metaphor to its extreme, Katrina’s about to break the levee holding back Lake Sanity.

“I gotta get out of this place.”

“I gotta go do something”

“I gotta find a woman”

Right now, I just gotta survive.

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When the skies go gray.

After two decades of living in this shitty city of mine I start to hate the day-in-day-out. The skies go gray too often.

I don’t know if it’s the mid-atlantic weather, or the fog of lies that emanates from this chocolate city’s marshmallow center that makes it all so bleak. Sometimes I think its the people. Too many of them are depressing, whether it is by nature or example.

The smart ones get out when they can. The stupid ones fight to get here. Hollywood for ugly people, they call it.

I walk past the hospital to the corner store, the hospital I was born in. Two decades and I’ve moved barely a hundred yards. Sirens punctuate the spanish songs as they scream by on the left. People don’t even know how to get out of the way here. The problem isn’t the terrain, or the lack of society. The problem isn’t the shade of the sky or the wail of the ambulance. No, at the end of the day the problem is us, still walking to the corner store to pick up some cheap food or booze, the little distractions on the long gray road.

I gotta get out of this place.