I
find myself in Chuco Town - flat on my bloody, sore ass and see a shrink who
deliberated after I exposed my tales of woe regarding the last five years of my
life, came to the conclusion I should be locked up and the key tossed away, no
rampaging roaming queens aloud in my district, girlfriend. I digress: the now
is happening and the yen of returning to San Diego and all points south have
been tempting my wondering baby blue eye.
I have been suffering from insomnia for the
last 48 hours with these fucking thoughts: I want to return to Tijuana, but I
don’t want to go, I want to stay in Juárez City but I don’t want to stay. The
lure of drugs and corruption seduce my being on both sides and both decisions
have their good points and their bad points which of course sucks like a fairy
in a bath house...an old ugly fairy. So I went to the local psychiatric center
and deliberated to my shrink and Dr. Windom took notes and scribbled little
scribbles never looking at me you understand on account I’m soooo feelthy. The
diagnosis being to put me back on mind-fuck medication and I told him he can
stuff it up his wrinkled snatch and stormed out because more or less (generally
more) I like myself. Oft cited, if I died tomorrow, I’d die happy, harboring no
regrets. I will transcribe these events - my purpose in writing it as “shitting
out my educated Southern California background once and for all.” It’s a matter
of catharsis, where I will continue to voice the most horrible of manias.
This stream-of-consciousness spewing is
apparently an attempt to liberate myself from the social and familial
conditioning which controls me, that hems me in, that ultimately drives me - in
desperation or rebellion - to self-limiting and self-destructive choices. Even
so, I am evading the issue. I can’t make up my mind what to do. Juárez City
substantially offers the same as Tijuana without the high-paced stress but the
pay rate in El Paso is below poverty level and I am a faggito who has high
standards, bitch, I won’t get fucked behind any old dumpster.
I talked to my shrink (“Urgent warning…one
of the nastiest cases ever entered this clinic.”) and wailed I feel so lost I
can’t think. There is only a big fat blank as far as my future is concerned.
That is to say, Dear Reader, I wish I could be like you and go to work
regularly and pay rent regularly and have a big screen television and a PS3 and
an electric can opener and a mustang convertible with all the trimmings and go
to prim and proper little dinner parties with polite laughter at stupid jokes
made by simpering fairies but I can’t and the fucking problem is that I don’t
know why. I know what I do is not normal, I mean the blog which I spill forth
is not fiction, how could anybody make that shit up continuously for fourteen
years? I was there, I seen, smelled, and touched everything which transpired so
I know it’s real, so fuck you faithless philistines anyways ever tell ya the
time I was in Tijuana I once saw a seventeen year old Mexican Indian boy Azteca
who shoot golf balls out his ass, and the fairies told me he was quite the
nimble minx in bed...ahem, I perused other blogs and I wondered am I the only
one in the world who travels and has a sex life (I miss you so much Saul
“muthafukuh pounds ass like a pornstar!”) and enjoys everything this big blue
marble has to offer? A mad man of one in a condemnatory society mired in
political correctness? Ah yes, but therein lies the problem...
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