Anger doesn't exist without nostalgia.

I'm angry, that I'm not there anymore. I'm angry at what you did. I'm angry at what I did. I'm nostalgic for the pain I experienced, and caused. I'm nostalgic for the good times that weren't good at all.

Sometimes we go back and forth between euphoric recall and nostalgic anger. They are the same. They don't differentiate. So why should we?

Hard to find the words to describe how life's tribulations degradingly betray us. Fight rather than make peace. Speaking, rather than doing. Exclusive destruction feels good, construction of myself only does for a while.

Life goes backwards, forwards, right and center. Non-linear in the horrifically grotesque image of realism, not a potpourri smelling hippy at his 15th festival this year talking about time.

Staying in one place is too much for me to bear as I sweat beads of boredom. A few years makes the last six months a place of monotonous cocksuckery and melancholy suicidal ideation that brings me right back to the places and people and things which cause my beads to turn to stress and frustration and fear.

Currently I am obsessed with the concept of duality, because there is so much of it in my own life.

I have very little insight into other people's lives since my own is all consuming like a raging inferno at a Texas fraternity's bonfire.

I like my writing and I don't. Others like it, I wonder if they're lying to appease and placate. Adjectives? TOO MANY I suppose. Fuck you that is how I write you can throw this fucking book in the nearest garbage bin, and then jump on in.

Time spent appeasing people is time spent by the weak and miserable. I don't even know you. You're just dumb enough to buy my book. Be strong and miserable. Be dangerous and harmless. Be an asshole and a saint.

Be confident and vulnerably insecure to the point you leave yourself open to immense pain and suffering that permeates a majority of your memories and feelings towards on a daily basis until you are so fucking dead inside that you don't want to kill yourself anymore unless it would make you feel alive and not completely gone as your pride consumes you, what you once felt you can't even feel in your chest.

It's you.

The sun rises over Baltimore, and I feel like a sanctimonious prick for writing that line. I've been up all night, to no good. Staying in a room for the night I surely cannot afford due to the shit head landlord of the previous room I had rented being a abhorrent bitch.

That shit be the title of my book. I think, at least. I think a lot of things, and most of them end me up in situations like these.

Sometimes they take me down the path of fortune and success but save for a few moments in my life - maybe more than a few but less than many. Many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. I tell myself that, at least.

I tell myself a lot of things that scare me into seeking escapist oblivion like alert awareness of my surroundings. A brightening and tweaking of my perception through women, through drugs and alcohol, through adrenaline or war.

Apparently the fear I feel when I think the doomsday scenario possibilities up in my head that become more realistic every day are the only ones I give value to, therefore leading to the inching further of my own destruction.

They're all one and the same, then again, many of the thoughts that pass through my head are of little value at all. Things that I tell myself are like a shipwrecked man talking to a effigy of his best friend.

Maybe that's true for all of us, but seemingly not all of us. Since the suited men that walk and drive and take the train down the side walk, street, and railways around here always seem to be put together.

I used to be one of them, but never for very long. I've been one in spurts and binges of functionality that always lead me back to where I am right now.

Winning the genetic lottery means exactly jack shit if you can't make use of in life. Not with the self destructive streak that cuts like a bowie knife on a hot day through a stick of butter into everything you try to accomplish, god forbid you accomplish it.

I sometimes really can't believe anyone would fictionalize and entertain with the lifestyle that fucks up everything in mine. The romanticized warrior alcoholic poet who completely tornadoes and nukes everything in his life including the food he eats and the women he fucks.

I had cut off my hair to get back to my high and fucked days of yesteryear. Mistake. Of course. Oh well. Most of the space on my white board has run out, better get a chalk board to fit this one in because god knows the shit is running into the hundreds between women, wars, and wickedness.

Maybe we should spend more time on others.

Less on ourselves and being alone like a cliche comedy character in a hood movie who “don’t need no man” — when it contributes to premature mortality rates and depression.

Mental disorders such as psychosis and depression — acute physical as well as chronic illness.

Maybe if we stood for each other more than our own individualistic pride? We would be just fine.

To say a human beings development depends on himself is to deny the entire development and sustaining endurance of the human race.

We. Are. Social. Creatures. We. Work. In. Groups. Best.

Whether that is a family a couple or a friend.

Why we choose to set our lives to hard mode when shit could be easy beginner I will never know but the modern world is the most fucked up thing I have ever seen.

So modern day individualism of the likes never seen before 1978 onwards is the answer?

Then we are all doomed.

When denying the base nature of human beings biologically, neurologically and spiritually becomes norm, we become manic depressive dysfunctional despots who pump bullets into strangers.

Intravenous drugs in our arms and dysfunctionally fucked up thoughts in our heads.

we raise fucked up kids. We look the other way when fucked up things happen.

So they continue to happen.

Continuing always, as long as we continue believing in human weakness and delusional idiocy as truths and not falsehoods.

Some will suffer more than others, and the ones who suffer less will pity the ones who suffer more but never help.

Hard times need soft edges, when the emphasis becomes individuality and egoism, we all die.

Those that suffer less will eventually suffer the most, because they thought they suffered least in hopes of self identity and pride preservation.

So what’s worked for 5,000 years of human history is going to change all of a sudden because now we all think that we are super hero’s not human beings?

I can’t wait to see what happens next.

I just saw a family meeting up with their dad.

His dad and a friend. They had been waiting on him for a bit, his wife was there and attentive.

His kids were there and attentive and excited to see him.

I just got off the train with nobody to meet me. Multiples that won’t respond to me or when they do it’s full of malice. Hatred. Or feigned indifference, worse feigned care. Canned care compassion.

Canned like a can of Coke that you pick up at a corner bodega, and find to be flat.

Canned like a can of Pepsi that’s been there for 2 years and never replaced. It’s half full, or half empty. Depending upon which side you’re sitting on. Depending on which side you grab and which side you don’t.

It’s carbonated or it’s flat. Depending on what kind of drink you like,

Carbonation or not.

But I’m missing a soda.

I've always felt weird walking into bars. I've always felt weird doing something I'm working on for too long, because I feel like if I achieve any measure of success in it that should be the stopping point lest I cannot maintain the peak I've come to. Better to quit on a high note right?

That's what I always do and so I walk into a bar. I walk into a bar and immediately feel uncomfortable if I'm not already drunk. The place people come to die slowly and fry mozzarella sticks fast to die even more quickly. I plop down on a bar stool and the bartender eventually makes their way around to me and asks me what I would like to drink. I order a beer, or a mixed drink. My most common concoction being a beer and a shot of vodka or three.

I've never been someone who resigned themselves to a fruitless life but it feels like less and less fruit is in my future. Very little in my past. In terms of the orchard keeper I have very little more than a barren wasteland like a orange farmer who thought it would be a great idea to plant in South Dakota at the turn of the century. Encountering a dust bowl the second seeds were planted.

It was better than before, better than when I felt like for the rest of my life I'd be stuck in my rack shivering and writhing in pain from alcohol withdrawal. It was better when I walked into the bar that I could discount every aspiration and ambition I once had within those four walls that made me as happy as can be but destroyed me. The bartender greeted me with a smile. Pretended I was personable. Pretended that I was meant to be there. Checked off every box that was necessary to keep me there on some misguided, unfounded goal to fuck her. Bartenders know exactly what they're doing.

It was dark, dank, and private. The only light I saw was from the glint of the black out blinds that covered every window. The ring of the blackjack machine was as artificial as everyone else's plastered drunk smile that made me nauseated and cajoling at the same time. I felt extra insecure on top of what I typically am insecure about due to the lack of teeth incurred by the bottle which had introduced itself to my face.

Constant stimulants, and constant depressive substances.

Duality exists in all facets of life I guess. Stimulation was a must and a straight life of rules and laws and responsibilities has almost always been something I'm essentially incapable of.

Jobs, careers, relationships and family affairs have always been a second thought after the inevitable pursuit of escape in a faraway town or city or country with cheap liquor and low hanging fruit like women I could easily acquire.

I arrived in the Caribbean just a few days ago and I already had baby mama drama without the baby.

Enough drama to last a reality TV star five seasons of shit show suck.

Everywhere I go I expect things to be different until they become the same. Everywhere I go and everything I do as a form of escapism turns into the worst decision while simultaneously being the best damn decision of my entire littoral life.

Story of my life, trying to mold-make a psychiatric condition into a wife. The walking borderline personality disorder that I had quickly proceeded to fall in love with was currently throwing every dish in my pantry out of a window onto the street while I could hear the neighborhood constituency vocalizing/ the shit out of their disapproval for my shenanigan like love interest gone wrong.

My newest heart throb from the depths of hell was drunk. She teetered, tottered, and fell out the window with my printer as she tried to throw it of a window.

She didn't know that the cord had wrapped itself most of the way around her leg and arm. Nothing went in slow motion like most claim it to be in these circumstances. She fell quick, she hit the gravel pavement hard.

Blood immediately, broken snaps that audiophile's would pay big bucks for echoed in the thick humidity filled night.

She had been drunk in a ethereal way, trans-dimension like intoxication. She screamed as she fell. As my mind always does, I didn't feel anything at that moment. I went completely television static like numb.

Second story falls don't normally kill people. Maiming, while unpleasant and extraordinarily inconvenient is far preferable to death. That wasn't her story, nor what I live with regarding her death. Death has been all around since the very beginning, and seems to always be a constant visitor to a shitty asshole crust a fault.

She died, and our story began. Her head had become a concave hellscape on a cobble stone road on a hot and putrid shithole in a Caribbean humidity dense as the driven snow in Colorado.

People crowded around, and in familiar Caribbean like lateness the ambulance waited a solid few hours to come scrape her corpse from the cobble stones that had likely seen a lot of death over the years from different kinds of people, persons, and persuasions.

I think I booked a ticket the second her ticket was punched. I honestly did not experience much more emotion than a tinge of panic once I realized that the fall she experienced might render her a vegetable and not a non-issue. I flew out of the local regional airport to my next port of call and smiled as I sipped my gin and tonic in a first class seat I had scammed my way into. This might sound harsh, and if it does, put this book down pussy. It's not for you.

Giving up never feels as good as you imagine it would.

The dejection sets in further than you ever could have imagined. Mirrors become something you avoid like a vampire trying to day walk.

The death knell in your mind is only confirmation of what you already suspected. Perhaps what you already knew. You were too weak to make it. Sabotage was a familiar friend and you can't quite tell if you're doing it right now but goddamn, if your rationalizations don't help you figure that shit out.

I used to think giving up was brave and shitted on people who tried to say it was cowardly to go out the hard way. Now I realize that it is neither cowardice nor bravery. It is unavoidable, omnipotent and the only path forward once a normal human being suffers to the point that they come to the decision -- well. It is the only decision.

People don't arrive at the precipice for no reason. They don't come without transportation. The vehicle that transports you you've likely known your whole life. Perhaps your dad, your mother. You grandparents, or your uncles and aunts. Perhaps they ALL chipped in.

Now they're just mad that you dented it, and that you took it over to the edge of this cliff barely managing not to total it in the ravine below. As you hang over the precipice, the only concern anyone will have is that the rope you're tethered to on the solid ground is fraying.

Last time the lights went out I was underground.

I had been working in this mine for close to 45 years. I lost count 45 days ago. I'm not over 30 years old I don't think. My mind doesn't concieve of time anymore since I was placed here and set to work interminably long hours for nothing more than the company of my fellow denizens of inaneity.

I woke up a few minutes later. This dream had been recurring in my sleep for many years and months now and I don't know why. I always saw a Monarch butterfly in the mine, that was then stabbed to death by one of the perceived authority figures. That I have no power to stop, or even yell or curse at.

I shook the sleep out of my eyes, hair, and mind. I woke up fully as I rose to my feet and the familiar smell of a Indian kitchen filled my nostrils so intensely that I don't have to shave the little fuckers called nose hairs that used to keep me company.

I used to love Indian food, goddamnit.

Now I think I'd puke if I tried to even get it anywhere close to entering my mouth and going down my esophagus to my stomach. Just the description entering my mind and I nearly ran for the toilet. Five minutes later I did. That always used to concern me because of my prior cancer diagnosis. One of the few men who suffered from the conviction of breast cancer in the 4th degree.

Here the fuck I am though, I thought. I wiped the drivel of neon green puke from my mouth.

Stomach bile this morning. My one vice remaining, I hope, was something that discouraged a healthy eating habit among other things. Thank god for steroids and testosterone, times a healthy dose of vain courage and mirror obsession. Propelled me and my steadily dying carcass into the doors of gyms and underneath barbells. It kept me away from the abyss like edge that I teetered on the precipice of and knew I would never survive.

Sweaty, previously ass-sat and ball-sat weight benches that I tried not to think about in my best efforts to get in and out, of a crowded space. Agoraphobia associated with the shit that kept me up at night won against my aversion to ass sweat. Every. Day. Of. The. Week.

My refusal to look like a bag of dicks tempered the blade of neuroses to the point all was well with the mirror image I so obsessively attempted to maintain. Life's all about balance.. right?

Determined not to look like a bag of dicks. Even if I was, indeed, a bag of dicks. Only you and I and god know that.

It reflected very eloquently my current state of affairs that it was literally the fucking only thing that made me get up in the morning. To know that looking in the mirror I'd see the muscular physique that I sought my whole life, and now will fight my whole life to maintain. Life long journey's that I found motivation for are few and well.. let's just fucking say few you assholes.

A familiar voice yelled up the stairs at me unintelligibly. It was the Indian family downstairs. They made me exit my apartment everyday at 0900 sharp because they are the fucking antichrist themselves and hate white round eyed Caucasians. I thought as I seethed in anger and unreleased rage. I gritted my teeth and yelled back at them in slurred english so they couldn't understand me telling them to go fuck their mothers and die. Then I wandered down the stairs. Plopping each foot onto the squeaky shit hole of a foundation this whole house was based upon. It hadn't been maintained in years because apparently whatever shit hole in India these cocksuckers had come from didn't believe in basic building code.

At 365$ a month for a one bedroom, I felt kind of silly complaining. The fatass patriarch who walked around like a rooster through the kitchen I had to walk through to leave my apartment "ALEXANDER - TIME TO GO TO LIBRARY OR FUCKING BLOODY WORK OR WHATEVER YOU BLOODY FUCKING DO"... I didn't feel silly complaining anymore.

At least he served a purpose in my own personal spite fantasy and bitching as well as moaning.

This dude was going to get reincarnated as a cockroach in a career pest controlman's home... Sucks to be an asshole AND a Hindu.

Fantasies had entered my head before of a violent physical confrontation upon the next verbal confrontation they lashed out of their empty heads traveling oh so abruptly to their mouths that it spewed equal parts saliva and shit breath if you weren't quick to dodge it.. but I knew better than to risk my life, limb and freedom for another's unworthiness of sharing the same air I breathed. I did that once and nothing very good came of it.

Okay, I did it many times. You got me. Assholes.

As I finally made my way to the door to the kitchen it swung open with a slam against the door jam opposite wall from me. My favorite individual was there to greet me with a look of disdainful disgusting grimace on his fat, pudgy and very oddly hairy face.

Unibrow thick, hair greasey as a mechanics hands with poor hygiene. He spit as he spoke and I wasn't very quick on the draw this time, so I got a nice spattering of his bodily fluid -- emitic style -- from his dick sucker.

Relaying any form of this conversation I believe would seriously put your neurologic function at risk due to it's intense stupidity. So I will refrain. Suffice to say that I extricated myself from his verbal hostage taking clutches and exited out the back as I do every day.