Forever Fucked.

It’s been two weeks since I freed myself from the chains of living the way I was.

Secure. Safe. Comfortable. Dull.

Every day waking up, drinking a cup of coffee, maybe with cookies or a piece of toast. Watching whatever news was on. Maybe playing that level on the game that I had bought for the Xbox. The Xbox! That was an addiction in itself. Before afternoon, I'd take the same walk downtown to eat the same sandwich from the same shop. Sitting in the same park seeing the same faces. Maybe walk over to the library to get free wi-fi and talk on facebook with people I’ll never meet. If I was feeling especially in a mood to mix it up, take in a day at the local coffee shop to talk to people on facebook who I’ll never meet.

Before returning home, stopping at a local market for food to prepare. Home. Make dinner. Watch the world news. Smoke a cig and finish the night on Xbox, again.

Every day. For three years.

To fill the in between times, I’d scribble out notes on a book which some demented kid will fawn over in Idaho or a better chance the book will not be read at all. Once or twice a week visit the local bar and sit there alone at the dank counter getting plastered on cheap beer spiraling down deeper in depression. Wondering all the while how did I, a person who at one time embraced danger and excitement, thrilled at socializing with the most interestingly unsavory of characters. How did I become such a bitter recluse? How did I revel in self-imposed solitude?

So, in a blatant fit of unthinking decision (As I had so often did in the past and made for a far better existence) I moved back to Juarez at the drop of a hat. I asked someone I hardly knew to use his address stateside for legal reasons and hightailed it to a pleasant apartment on a quiet street.

As stated, two weeks had passed and already my wandering eye was looking elsewhere. The same conundrum plagues me in Juarez as it did in Tijuana when I left in May of last year. Juarez hadn’t changed, I did. I moved in lieu of delusional fits of nostalgia. To rekindle a life I had led five years ago when I lived in the city before. However, I am not content. Not too thrilled at being here.

For one, all the friends I had enjoyed company with had left town in lieu of the past cartel wars. To be certain, I can make new friends, right? But that is the most insidious part. The previous three years in El Paso had eaten away at my confidence and self-esteem. El Paso is a very bitter city. The general population is mired in arrogant detachment with any one. So, I never really associated with anyone there. I attempted to make friends – friends! – however, their motives were always base and ulterior. Sad. So, I left and I am still mired in loneliness. Stuck in that same rut. I guess the old axiom No Matter Where You Go, There You Are rings truer than one would imagine.

And before you say anything, rentboys and hustlers don’t make good friends. They fill a void, so to speak, but like to steal. A lot. I had never had one in my house who didn’t take something! Pilfering rat bastards…dirty socks or vitamin tablets? Really?

Your next question is probably, "Why don't you go to the bars and/or clubs in Juarez?"

It isn't from fear of walking the streets late at night. I simply don't want to be sitting in a bar and be bothered.

What brought this on was a discussion I had with a handsome Mexican man during breakfast today at Café 656 on Juarez Ave. He was sitting at a table next to mine and overheard the morning jabber I had with the owner about how cold it was in my new place. He smiled and leaned over and greeted me in English. It was a general discussion, the kind I always get from the locals and I really don’t mind. How do you like Mexico? Have you been here? Have you visited there? You must take time to try this and that…the general stuff.

When asked what I did for a living, I stated that I was a writer. Five published novels under my belt.

“Are they fiction or fact?” He asked.

I do not know why that simple question effected me as it did, but I began a rant, “They are all fact. In the books, I’d changed the names, but the incidents are all true. I was there, I distinctly remember the shit I write happening exactly as written. However, most, if not all, readers believe they are fiction. The truly sad part, I have had long time readers of my books and especially my blog who have more than once stated they wish they could live as I do. I quickly warn them that I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone…it’s actually horrible.
However, throughout the years, several acquaintances had tried to mimic my life I had brazenly scribed and failed miserably. And, since they couldn’t attain anything near what fate flings at me on a daily basis, I am branded a liar and insane. There is a vast difference between Oh my God! I can’t believe I’d just done that! (Them) to Oh my God! I can’t believe that just happened! (Me). Honestly, I don’t go looking for these misadventures and sour mishaps, they simply occur. You can’t force this stuff. It truly is a curse. Kind of.”

That was the point of discontinuing this blog back in November. The only reason I originally wrote in this journal was to puke out all the diarrhea of thought over what insanity my life was spewing at me. Sure, over time, there was a slight bit of fame from readers. Honestly, I never expected anyone to read this…another weird occurrence in my life. Yet, during last year, what was there to write about? I remained in my state of the art apartment in fear. Didn’t socialize strictly out of abstract paranoia of some near death experience. Yet, true to form, the point is moot. I did it again. Slapped fate in the face screaming, “Do your worst, bitch!” Once again.

So. What now? What now, indeed. I have been invited by a friend from High School to relocate to San Francisco this fall. He has a roommate who will be leaving for a gig in Europe in September. My high school friend makes a myriad of points why I should go in which I won’t mention here. But, they are all positive and quite intriguing concerning literary arts and like minded people.

I told him I’ll make my mind up at the end of August. I still want to go and retire in Puerto Rico. Anywhere is better than on Tattooine, I reckon.