rant 1995

What a fuck up— a stupid coward drunken boob chickenshit— not an asshole, assholes hurt others, fuck ups hurt themselves and only themselves— on a consistent basis— as such thoughts spin inside like a fucking cloud of dry leaves on a grey windy day— and as they are real— more real than I’d like to know— why? Why a fuck up? What drives the fuck up on his/her lonely little path of self-destruction— you lucky fuck up too.

The night in question: the simple facts— got wasted, pointless night of swilling gin, ok?— stole brother’s car, while wasted, of course— ended up parked and passed out in a lot beside the Avon police station (all this with my trial next month for alleged assault and battery and indecent assualt) only to be awoken by the police— them thinking I was dead— and I didn’t have my license on me and on searching my bag found a near empty liter of gin— all this shit and never waking up on time to make it to class— two days in a row lost to drunken cowardice—

That is my example and for all I know the world knows it— I certainly do— why am I such a fuck up? Why do I keep trying to keep myself down? Why? Is it important? What the fuck!— I’m losing my mind— really, like a vice grip grinding my brain into thin wet pulp of membrane.

2015. I'm noticing a lot of anger in 1995, after my wrongfully accused night in Harvard Square. Lots of drinking and me against the world attitude. That did screw me up for awhile so much so that even driving by the Cambridge courthouse, from the expressway, used to make me sick to my stomach.