Friday, July 18, 2014

Scribbles in the Margin of my Days

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 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...

No comments: