Ruined trifles, covered in chocolate in My Look Book

Almost forgot to journal today. Was all set to launch into my daily writing ritual of slamming energy drinks and staring at the carpet benumbed and trembling until the literary ideas begin to sound from the other side of time’s wall, when I realized that I hadn’t done my little morning ramble about myself. It’s meant to clean out the pipes of psychology within oneself, they say, that the water of higher purposes may flow easy and clear. I think Seinfeld recommended it once, or Joey Diaz, or the half page of the Artist’s Way that I read before I remembered I was a grown man and quite conscientiously donated the book to the kitchen garbage can.
So now that I’m here, what do I mean to say, to confess? I don’t really know this morning. My head’s as dodgy as a battered wife. Woke up with a problem in my spirit, an ice cube of anger that’s been melting slowly to puddles of nervousness. What kind of anger, you may be wondering? Mainly residual anger over what my parents did to me when I was young, and what women have done to me since, with a little left over for certain unpleasant job experiences and the college professors who didn’t find my Uranian aesthete approach to normative scholastics conducive to the flow of their lesson plans. It’s their loss, say we.
I always did do things my own way. Even when things were going well in my social life (it’s been a minute) it was only because my preferred manner of conduct happened to pair up serendipitously with the expectations of the herd. When the herd changed or matured and came to expect different things of me, they received more of the same, and slid away disappointed to jerk each other off in small rooms or start careers, or whatever such people do. Wave after wave of them have come to me excited, and left perplexed. Wave after wave of people and scenes, of thriving life and gainful meaning crashing ever and gloriously to shore, as I sit bare-assed on the sand in my Hawaiian shirt, growing pink in the sunshine and sipping a mixed drink, oblivious.
I could never handle the social contract, let alone emotional conventions. I’m too querulous, unaffiliated, cloudy with meta. I love entropy like a pet. Even a box of chocolates seems to me an act of roseate despotism, a Pol Pot graveyard of ruined trifles, covered in chocolate.

Last updated January 15, 2020