Tuesday, May 31, 2011

"don't let me disappear to the coast of oregon"

"don't let me disappear to the coast of oregon"
written in an airport lounge by jake kilroy.

don't let me disappear to the coast of oregon,
so that all i do is smoke myself dry,
drink myself soaked,
laugh myself stupid.

sip the wind like wine.
lay in grass beds.
write jokes on hands.
waste away in the world.

and come back to the city
to eat fried food i can't taste
in a nearly empty bar
listening to neil young
waiting for a friend,
recounting the mistakes i've made
and the people i made them for.

don't let me sink.
don't let me drift.
don't let me sail away,
because i know where i'd go.
and it's not here.
and i can't say that out loud.

so, if i could, for one night,
here and there,
between the gaps of gritted teeth
that make up the the grinning months of the calendar year,
allow me a party,
where i can taste neon lights like syrup
and play music too loud
and throw my things into the pacific.

before chain-smoking in freeway traffic
on my way to the airport,
to go home somewhere else.

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Papa Bear Makes Wise

BROTHER: She just kept plucking around.

FATHER: Let's not say the word "fucking."

SISTER: Wait, did you just say what I thought you said?

FATHER: I said, "Let's not say the word 'fucking.'"


MOTHER: I can't believe you just said that.

FATHER: Ah, Deb, I'm just fucking around.

Friday, May 20, 2011

If The World Ends Tomorrow...

"If The World Ends Tomorrow..."
a apocalyptic rant by jake kilroy.

I've been wrong about a lot of things in life. Like...A LOT of things.

But I've never ever been wrong about a rapture. Mostly because I've never predicted one. And I've never supported one. The only rapture I kind of like is the band and even they sort of get on my nerves.

So, it's made the news that, according to Harold Camping, president of the Family Radio Christian Network, and his followers, the world is supposed to end tomorrow (around 6 p.m., from what I understand). For all I know, it will. How the shit would I know? Everybody's making assumptions here. My guess is that it won't, but don't quote me on it, because I want to keep my record on not being wrong about raptures spotless. I just feel bad for those who give a specific day about the end of the world. They don't seem to get the enormity of what they're claiming.

Because how pissed are people going to be on Sunday morning?

I'll tell you: REALLY pissed.

If the world's truly ending tomorrow, tonight should be goddamn lunacy. Over the years, I've only really gone to church for weddings, funerals and the occasional mixer, so I'm almost certain I'm not allowed on the glowing escalator and, if that's the case, I may be prepared for dealing in the gnar and gettin' hectic on the world. If I was convinced these were my last days, I'd go for broke in every sense of the word (spending all my money and breaking things). Then Sunday comes and I apparently don't have to cross a lake of lava to get to my car? How mad would I be now that it turns out I still have my whole life ahead of me in the suburbs, except now with a body full of heavy drugs and STDs? Look, I don't know how buckwild everybody's gonna get in their last days. This is all just speculation.

Of course, this is all if I took Harold Camping's word about the rapture, which I don't, since I guess he blew it pretty bad in September and October 1994 (he had a set date as well as a back-up date). Also, I don't trust anybody with an active verb for a last name.

On Sunday morning, what if people walk up the guys with the apocalypse signs and say, "Hey. So...what the hell, man? What do I do now? You told me that yesterday was the day. I did a lot of terrible things last night. Look at all this blood on my clothes. How am I going to explain this to my wife who went to a freaky sex party last night? You screwed me, bro."

The rapture is not a picnic. I know enough about the Bible to at least be aware of that. It's not some, "oh hey, if you're not doing anything Saturday, we should bike ride to the beach and eat on the pier." NO. The rapture is the end-all. The month before the rapture (that I would hypothetically believe in), I would probably free-for-all everything that usually has consequences. I'd take up heroin and prostitutes, for sure. Why wouldn't I? I mean, that's not my usual prerogative, just so we're clear. Not even close. I'm usually about basketball and vermicelli bowls. Stuff like that. You know, books and beer. Those sorts of things. But, really, if it's my last month on the Earth I know, appreciate and take care of here and there, I'm going out with a bang. Literally. I will probably procure a firearm of some sort. Why? Hey, here's a better question: why not? It's the freakin' rapture, man.

So, no, the rapture is not a picnic. It's a life-changing event. Yeah, my wedding day will probably be important. So will the birth of my first born. But the rapture? That's, like, crazy huge. That's not something you go at willy-nilly. And if you're wandering around the city with signs, just to grab some attention from the patrons of Starbucks, there reworking the first scene of a script they probably won't finish, then, come on, man, you need a new hobby. In fact, you should be the one writing a movie! You obviously have a cooler imagination than everybody else!

Raptures aren't for yokels, and claiming it is even wilder. This shit's serious. You're telling everyone that everything they know will end. EVERYTHING. All the celebrities you love, all the politicians that decide things, all of your stupid tasks like getting gas and buying groceries, every book and movie that exists, airplanes, trains, ships, oceans, mountains, cities, towns, rockets, fucking...EVERYTHING will no longer be. And if you believe that, if you honestly believe that's going down tomorrow, WHY ARE YOU HANGING OUTSIDE OF MALLS TELLING PEOPLE THIS? YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME WITH YOUR LOVED ONES MAKING FAJITAS AND PLAYING BOARD GAMES. OR YOU SHOULD BE PICKING UP FOOD FROM YOUR FAVORITE RESTAURANTS BEFORE CALLING EVERY PERSON YOU'VE EVER WRONGED AND TELLING THEM THAT YOU'RE SORRY. MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE IN YOUR LIVING ROOM, LOOKING THROUGH EVERY PHOTOGRAPH YOU HAVE AND CRYING UNTIL YOUR EYES SOUND LIKE A GAS LEAK. IT SHOULD BE FUCKING TEAR GAS COMING OUT OF YOUR FACE. YOU SHOULD BE OUT OF TEARS.


And, shit, if you really believe the world ends tomorrow, how are you taking it so well? Because you'll be lifted? Dude, not everyone you know is going to Heaven. Some of your buddies at the bowling alley, some of your ex-girlfriends that you stayed on good terms with, even some of your relatives with their condescending tones that you still kind of like seeing at sporadic holidays (though you never send them a birthday card), they're all doomed and not coming with you. You will miss them. You will miss them tremendously. You should be calling them. You should be giving them some goddamn tips about how to walk the new world of fire that they're left with while you drink white wine in a toga for eternity! People left on Earth are so screwed, man! While you're at your afterlife dinner party, filled with finger foods and pale confetti, chatting up Mark Twain and beating the shit out of Abraham Lincoln at foozball with Jimmy Stewart on your team, your heathen friends are going to be walking a planet that will mostly look like the Australian outback in a century after the Ozone layer has caught fire and exploded (I don't understand global warming, so, to me, that scenario is just as likely as the rapture happening on Saturday...yes, I ignore religion AND science).

The point is, if you really, honestly, truly believe the world is ending tomorrow, why are you wearing such dumb shirts and not a tuxedo? Go out in style, guy. I guess they don't have tye-dye in Heaven (as I assume it's mostly white and ivory mixes), so, if that's your reason, go for it, I suppose. Get out your last hoorah of clothing with colors. But you shouldn't be out here telling me and everybody else to repent. You've already got your one-way ticket. You don't need to do any more saving. You should be at home watching a marathon of Disney cartoons and eating a dozen plates of nachos with people you can't get enough of. Don't waste your time on everyone else! This is a time to relax!

Also, how are you able to relax right now? Don't you have a crazy amount of anxiety? I couldn't deal with that kind of pressure. You're about to go on an eternal trip, man! You should probably have some knots in your stomach to unwrap! What should you bring? Should you even bring anything? Will they provide shoes at the gates or should you bring a nicer pair? Should you buy new shoes? If so, tennis shoes or dress shoes? Can you be overdressed for the afterlife? Could you be underdressed? These are major concerns you should be having, since your decision affects you for, oh, I don't know, for-fucking-ever.

Why are you not at least stocking up on clean underwear? Macy's should be out of underwear right now. Vons should be out of toothpaste. CVS should be sold out of motion sickness pills. These are things that everyone person planning to leave Earth tomorrow should have an eternal supply of. Sure, it's probably a safe assumption that Heaven will provide all of your toiletries, but even the nicest hotels don't always leave mints on your pillow. It's a risky move. At least bring a backpack, for Christ's sake! I mean...Christ will probably want a snack or something. And then you have to figure out what He would want! Corn Nuts seem like a solid choice, but which flavor? Is chile picante too spicy? Is original too boring? Ugh. Everyone planning to abandon this planet tomorrow should be experiencing multiple aneurysms, just trying to figure their shit out.

All I'm saying is be prepared and spend your closing hours with people you love. This isn't a time to tell some lost soul on his way to Panda Express that he should be at home getting ready for the rapture. THAT'S WHAT YOU SHOULD BE DOING. GET THE FUCK HOME AND BE READY FOR THE END OF THE WORLD, DUDE.

And, if the rapture doesn't come tomorrow, then I'd just stay home on Sunday, man. If there's one day to stay home from church, it's the day after the rapture didn't come when you promised it would and you looked like an asshole. Get your shit together. Literally. You're leaving soon.

Ah well.

Good luck out there, everybody!

Cake & Jazz Music

"Who needs full-time jobs anyway? Cake and jazz music? That’s what life’s all about." - Celeste Hoang

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

I'm A Genius (Sometimes)

I rarely think of myself as a genius. And, when I do, it's not because of I wrote or said anything profound. At best, my writing is motivated by impressing strange chicks I meet in stranger bars and my talking is used as a severe distraction from whatever I am currently wearing.

I've come to realize that the only time I award myself the obnoxious title of "genius" is when I make complex meals without recipes (which is often achieved by randomly combining ingredients I find around the kitchen in a hopeful attempt to not starve or leave the house) or by turning one meal into many. That's about it. I really only declare myself a genius when I have a mouth full of food.

"Kilroy, you magnificent bastard genius," I recently announced to myself, hardly understandable with my face being crammed with rice noodles and soy chicken. I happened to be watching yet another episode of Cheers (the entire series is on Netflix's instant streaming, people) and I had heroically saved the broth of the Loving Hut's royal noodle soup and turned it into a fourth meal by coolly adding a few ingredients all radically and what have you.

So next time you think, "That Jake is no genius," just wait until I turn some leftover burrito into a taco salad three days later and your brain explodes from sensual joy. YOU JUST WAIT, AMERICA. I'M ALWAYS COOKING UP SOMETHING.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Mix Memories: Volume One

I don't listen to music as often or intently as I once did. These days, I typically have an audiobook in the car and a movie usually going in my room. At work, I sometimes have Pandora on or I listen to one artist's discography on my iPod. And I think I've realized why it's never one of the many playlists I've made over the years. When I listen to those mixes, they're a collection of my favorites and I find myself distracted with the memories the songs bring. So, I decided to put some of them down, if only as some self-preservation. Some memories mean more than others and some are just observations.

"The New Year" by Death Cab For Cutie
- I spent a lot of the summer of 2004 either playing music in my garage or hanging out in front of Bogart's. My friends worked there and the owner hated us loitering around the parking lot. I mean, we were 19 years old and our friends made sandwiches for a living, so obviously we were moochers. But it felt like you could stop by any time of the day and there was someone there doing nothing. I remember Rex showed me this song in his car in Bogart's parking lot once when we were bored and playing catch. You could spend all day there and it wasn't until the sun went down that you had to figure out what to do with your time.

"A Tender History In Rust" by Do Make Say Think - I don't remember why I was coming home from Los Angeles that night, but I remember Sarvas was driving and Jeff put this on. I watched the skyline fade behind the trees and the houses as we headed home.

"The Remains Of The Day" by Mono - Jeff showed me this song once and I told him that it was hardly a song. He gave me a copy of the album anyway, and I listened to it on my own a few more times and loved its airy sound. It was perfect music for sitting around my room.

"Digital Love" by Daft Punk - When Ryan and I visited Boston, Cousin Eric drove us to New Hampshire to see his friends and we listened to Daft Punk as we took our time through the the forested countryside. Once we arrived in that small town in New Hampshire, the three of us wandered along a river and then sat at an outdoor table at Eric's friend's restaurant. The patio was covered and we watched a heavy storm come and go, all while Ryan and I fell in love with the same girl we couldn't have.

"Don't Stop" by Brazilian Girls - Chris and I took a long bike ride around Old Towne Orange one spring afternoon, all while talking about how our relationships would soar or sink with no middle ground. We stopped by his girlfriend's apartment and she was cleaning her room with this song on. I demanded to know who it was and then listened to it for a week straight.

"Us" by Regina Spektor - I was watching Conan O'Brien one night I couldn't sleep and she was performing this song. I leaned closer to the television because I couldn't believe how good it was. I thought about lucky the guy was that the song was about (not so much the lyrics, but just to have such a good song about him being played on national television). I then decided to date a pretty singer/songwriter that could play the piano for me on Sunday mornings in our New York City loft with brick walls while I made her breakfast. I have since been unsuccessful.

"Die" by Carissa's Wierd - I remember finding out this band the summer I spent hanging with Bret and Randy at the hookah bar. This song gave me the chills the first time I heard it. Who could be this beautiful and broken?

"Road To Joy" by Bright Eyes - I remember driving up to Thanksgiving with my mom, my brother, my sister and my grandma one year. My siblings hated Bright Eyes and I couldn't stop listening to this song. I made them put it on and I either forgot or didn't care about the part where he yells "Let's fuck it up, boys! Make some noise!" Well, I'll tell you, nobody was happy. Except me. I was really happy. This song ruled then and it rules now.

"Old School Reasons" by Alkaline Trio - I can't think of a better song to blast while cruising around on summer afternoons with the windows down. I listened to it the entire summer of 2006 when all I recall doing was swimming, drinking and writing. I feel like I only worked at my restaurant job just enough to afford gas that summer.

"Twelve" by Forward, Russia! - I was sitting in a gas station with Jeff while Rex was getting gas and we were trying to figure out what the lyrics were as it was playing. I think we cheated and finally pulled out the album insert.

"Indian Summer" by Pedro The Lion - I love the phrase "Indian summer" and this song sort of puts the right vibe to those two words. Also, for a few-week period, Bret had to repeatedly ask me not to sing-talk like the singer. I couldn't stop. I had a problem. I was crazy addicted to sing-talking like the singer of Pedro The Lion.

"Bruised" by The Bens - This song makes me think of Julia, but not because of this specific song. I just feel like I got into each Ben in the band at her house (Ben Folds, Ben Kweller and Ben Lee). Actually, maybe I did listen to this song at her house when I went there every other weekend. I don't know. The more I think about it, I feel like this song reminds me a lot of the end of the summer after high school when everyone left for college. Ugh. What a cliche.

"West Coast" by Coconut Records - I first heard this at a party at the Columbus House and everything suddenly felt like some weird indie music video. Everything seemed to be moving slower and everyone was smiling all nostalgic. Or I think that's how it was. I'm not entirely sure. I was on drugs at the time.

"Every Direction Is North" by El Ten Eleven - Randy one gave me a heap of electronic and post-rock music. I didn't listen to it for a long time. I finally put one of the albums in my car and I remember this song standing out as I pulled out of a gas station. I put it on a mix for someone later that week. That's about it. Sorry. Not much on this one.

"We Have A Map Of The Piano" by Mum - I took this in a gigantic steal from Jenelle's computer. We had lunch at Jalapeno's and then went back to her apartment and she showed me all the music she considered for choreography. I didn't listen to Mum for years. Then, one night when I was sitting at my computer, I put it on and it put me in the weirdest place. It felt like a Bjork-like digital ghost was seducing me with opium and freaky slow dancing from the east. I think I laid on my floor and listen to the barely-there ambient music wondering what dance Jenelle came up with for this song.

"Swimmers" by Broken Social Scene - I listened to this song and it made my way into a dream one night. I think it was me, a girl I loved in the dream and didn't know in real life and our collective friends all swimming at some lake with a rope swing. It was in slow motion and it looked like my brained film it on an old video camera. My dream couldn't have looked more like a memorial video to play at some hipster's funeral if it tried.

"Suicide" by Eulogies - I have no idea how I scored this album. I found it tucked in my car's backseat when I was cleaning out my mess of an interior. There was no case. It was just the actual disc. I put it in my stereo when I got home. After I heard this song, I thought, "Well, it doesn't matter whose this was. It's mine now."

"Up On The Roof" by The Drifters - The summer between my junior and senior year of high school, I spent a lot of afternoons driving around with Sarvas and smoking cigarettes for the first time. We listened to a lot of oldies and he told me this was his cheer-up song. Everyone has their own cheer-up songs, but I don't normally adopt them. This one, however, I kind of lifted for myself. I listened to it once on an actual roof and I probably ripped a hole in the space-time continuum. Sorry, universe.

"Mood Indigo" by Duke Ellington - Some summer nights, the weather is perfect. You sleep with the windows open and maybe one blanket on top of you. And you almost don't want to fall asleep, because then it'll be loud and bright and you'll get distracted with the morning world. But for those minutes or hours you lay in bed, waiting to fall asleep in the cool breeze, you think of somebody. That's this song.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

My Quiet Birthday

It was my birthday yesterday, and I turned 26 like someone slipping out of a party through the back door to have a cigarette alone on the back porch. That's not supposed to stir idle tales of melancholy. The person on the porch isn't leaving the party. He's just taking a break. And he's drunk as shit. And he's probably gotten all loud and handsy. And he's probably laughed his throat sore. But now he just needs a lone cigarette under the hailing light of a western moon to quietly reflect on the past and consider the future.

But it's not some big change coming. He doesn't need to strike up the band for a new anthem. Maybe he only needs them to alter a few notes. In his head, it could just be "get Del Taco on the way home" or "call the doctor tomorrow." It becomes a laundry list of the little things as the big picture's still in focus and coming to the good part.

Many asked me what I had planned for my birthday this year and, after several inviting suggestions and a few suggestive invitations, I decided to just stay in. I worked from home and a few things came up that I didn't expect. My mom bought me a bagel and hot chocolate from The Coffee Grove, Rex took me to lunch and Jeff, Rex and Greg took me out for a few calm and collected hours of good beer and delightful conversation (and, the night before, Non and Jessica had me over for a lovely birthday dinner). At night, my parents made French onion soup, croque-monsieur and cheesecake, and we played Settlers of Catan.

And that's all, and actually more than, I wanted for my birthday.

Initially, I had planned to work from home, take myself out for breakfast and lunch, spend the late afternoon reading or playing video games and then eat dinner with the family. It didn't change that much, but I was excited for the day and thrilled with the small additions. I've seen a declining interest in my birthday celebration over the years, though I've also noticed the way I celebrate my birthday is somewhat reflective of what brought me the most happiness that year.

When I was 25, I celebrated by playing a gigantic game of basketball. I felt that I got the most from being healthy that year.

When I was 24, I went to dinner and a movie with my girlfriend. I felt I got the most out of a committed relationship that year.

When I was 23, I had a pool party and we ended up sitting around the jacuzzi talking the afternoon away. I felt I got the most from my friends that year.

When I was 22, I threw a house party in my first rented place and a whole lot of people came. I felt I got the most from freedom that year.

When I was 21, I celebrated my birthday for six days and called it Jake-A-Palooza. I felt I got the most from ego that year.

By the way, "family" doesn't make the list of what I get the most out of every year, as my family has been an unsaid first since I was born.

Beyond that year of legal drinking, I don't remember what I did for my birthday. I believe all the drinking on my 21st birthday destroyed part of my memory. All the whiskey and all the beer set fire to my warehouse of teenage boxes. It was an electrical fire when the synapses of my brain began popping and sparking, laying waste what came before.

I just know that, on my 20th birthday, my father told me, "In ten years, you'll have a career. In five years, you might have a wife." He patted me on the back, smiled and exited my room. I stared at the empty doorway for a moment and then spent the rest of the night on the floor listening to Bruce Springsteen records, trying to calm myself down.

No matter how inviting the future is, the present is always much more comfortable. I like what came, what's come and what's coming. And, in my 26 years on this earth, I can say that I lost my head for a few of them, but I've done well for the most part. I can site moments of mania and days of bad decisions, but, if I had to chalk everything up to one of two columns, I think I'd be pretty excited about the score.

And I've had plenty of time to realize this, as I've been granted two and a half decades on this planet to figure it all out. Obviously, I've spent a very small fraction on actually concentrating on figuring it all out, but nearly effort in a person's outrageously fragile existence is subtle attempts to figure it out. Every friend you make as a kid, every shitty poem you write as a teenager, every day job you interview for as an adult are all part of figuring it out, though most of us make it look easy. It's easy to figure yourself out and you don't have to spend a lifetime building the goddamn machine. Instead, just oil it here and there and add some cogs when you feel it's necessary. It's not a matter of having the biggest machine, but it's about the owning up to the one that runs the most efficiently.

In case you're wondering, I gave myself a fuck-ton of analogies for my birthday and I'm using them now. Woo!

This past year, I feel as though I've gotten the most out of staying in, sometimes with my family and sometimes alone. I've read more than I ever have, I've watched more movies than I ever have and I've become cleaner and more organized with my life. This is not to imply that I haven't gone out. I mean, shit, this past year included Cowboy Spirit and whatever the hell this recent "spring anarchy" counts as.

I've had a tremendous amount of fun in the last 365 days, but when I honestly consider what has helped me the most evolve as a person, it was making the most of staying in. And it wasn't really about figuring it out. I'm figuring it out all the time. I'm like the Sherlock Holmes of my own life (birthday analogy!). As I've stayed in, I'm improved as a writer more than I ever have in a year and I've more or less come to understand the general pace of adult life. I've worked on social nuances and improved my rhythm of being a healthy human being.

Among the very small number of people I celebrated my birthday with between the very few moments of my birthday celebration (a total of two dinners, a lunch and a late afternoon fit of drinking), I came to absolutely no outstanding conclusion whatsoever. I'm not searching for a great answer, I'm not waiting for the great reply and it felt great for my birthday to come and be unsure if I'm where I think I should be or that I just don't care.

That is my great revelation, and it was a great birthday.

Friday, May 6, 2011

"pink shirt"

"pink shirt"
a thoughtful bit of nonsense by jake kilroy.

i remember you in a pink shirt,
when i played drums in a band
that ultimately went nowhere.

you sank your teeth into your lips,
like great warships in ruins,
melting into the hungry sea.

and i was just a musician
that lied about music,
as woefully dazzling as smoke.

you had eyes that came at me,
that dazed the furious world,
like a lustful escape artist.

but you were on the balcony,
when i left with someone else,
to drink wine in a front seat.

i went home counting trees
and painting your name across
the winter lull of my window.

and you were all i had in me,
carving tools from bones
and meat from muscle.

so i skulked my kingdom
as a tired, bloody hunter,
with an arrow through his throat.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

My Face Is Literally Falling Apart

A piece of my tooth randomly fell out of my mouth the other night. This was obviously distressing news. As I chewed my gum and suddenly felt something come unstuck, I thought that I had heroically outed some stale piece of popcorn or porcelain. But no! It was a part of my mouth.

What keeps playing in my head is that scene from It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia where Charlie keeps pulling teeth out of his mouth. And, let me tell you something, that guy most certainly does not have his shit together.

If part of your mouth is actually falling off your face, then that's probably a solid argument against having your shit together. When something like that happens, you'd think I had spent a month eating sour patch kids in a bowl of Pepsi like it were cereal for every meal and just abandoned brushing my teeth altogether. But that's not the case! I brush my teeth two or three times a day! And, sure, I haven't had a stunning diet recently, but I was regularly eating all kinds of fruits and vegetables the first three months of this year.

Damn, maybe it was Anything Goes April, which turned into May I Have Everything May. I don't know. I'm not a scientist. If I were, I'd cure all teeth problems forever. And everyone would throw me a parade where all we served were things that destroy your gums but now don't.

"Yes, I'll have that jellybean sandwich! In fact, make that two!" all the kids would say.

The only trouble they'd be in is when they have to go to the face doctor for smiling too much. And they wouldn't even be bummed.

"So..." the doctor would start.

"Fucking worth it," the magnificent kids would tell him, cutting him off.

"Jake Kilroy the scientist is the greatest person to ever live for any reason in any country on any planet," the youngest, most adorable youngster would announce adorably.

But, no, I'm not a scientist and instead of being praised in the history books as "the man who solved everything," I have to go down in the diary I don't really have as "one big decaying mess." Maybe if I'm nice, I'll list myself "peaked," so that peers assume that I was once a man with full teeth.

I drank cold water two nights ago and nearly threw the cup across the room. That's how bad it stings. Now my goddamn nerves are exposed. People will see my feelings. You know what that means? I have to eat my feelings. All billion of them. That's right! I have a billion feelings. Happy? No! That's not even one of my billion feelings right now! Right now, I feel "unpruniaxed," which you didn't even know was possible until now! Why can't I go down in history as "the awesome hero would had a billion feelings?" Nope. Instead, I have to go to sleep knowing I'm "the guy who whose bones collapsed on him in a spectacular disappointment."

You know what? I was too good to myself this last month. That's what happened. Everything I wanted, I gave myself. I was having cheesecake for breakfast and beer for lunch. Dinner? Who gives a shit about dinner when all you've had to eat that afternoon is a few Pez candies and a couple swigs of bourbon?

Fuck this.

Oh, and last night, while at Taco Bell, I pulled up to the window and the guy said, "Yeah, I remember this order. You're the only one who orders rice instead of meat."

I nod and mumble something that sounds vaguely like a reply. When he comes back with my food, he adds, "After you left last night, I tried it with rice and it was pretty good."

YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT. I WENT TO TACO BELL TWO NIGHTS IN A ROW. Same fucking Taco Bell, same fucking guy giving me Taco Bell. But have I learned my lesson? Hell no! I might get Taco Bell tonight! I might eat that shit in my sleep! I might dream about Taco Bell!

All I have to do is make sure I chew all that Taco Bell with the right side of my face, so that those nacho chips I've ordered on this lifelong binge of destroying my body don't stab the goddamn exposed nerves in my mouth.

Ugh. I'm so hungry.