Automatic Troll

[David bin Bedlam]

The voices in my head insist I should let them dictate for a while,
since it works so well for David Bowie and Ilya Shambat, and probably
won't prove any more fatal than anything else I've posted so far in the
past 14 or so years. (Not that I'd be averse to someone kind enough to
HUNT ME DOWN & KILL ME, mind you, just the the Voices don't like the
idea because then they'd finally have to shut the FUCK up.) So now that
I've had tea with rum (Bigelow Darjeeling Blend and Heaven Hill Light
respectively, and yes I remembered to measure out exactly one shot of
the latter -- for the first cup anyway), and because my right arm isn't
completely numb yet and somehow I find Porcupine Tree inspiring even
though I can hardly figure out what the fuck the songs are about ("I
want you to put Felix's penis on me," it just clearly said), like, well,
tah-dah. Ain't this the most artistic paragraph y'all've read today?

I just heard yesterday that a chick I dated just before the CIA set out
to get me the last time has begun "going through positive changes," i.e.
AA and NA meetings. Oh well, if 16 years of legal adulthood, a 7 year
old daughter and a husband she must have pulled out of a hat somewhere
didn't kill any lingering nostalgic lust I might've somehow bothered to
entertain that 12 Step business would surely do it. If there's one thing
my willy can't abide it's "letting go and letting God" -- that's even
worse for that purpose (or better) than herpes, warts and a biological
clock combined. How would a mere piece of natural or synthetic membrane
protect me from The Lord Of Hosts?

But neither of these paragraphs has anything to do with why I get so
bloody tired of living, why I bother to breathe at all. About which,
while I was crossing the street toward the store to buy rum I had a
pseudo-profound thought that I recall as something like this: "Don't
wonder why I drink, wonder why I'm ever sober."

I finally got back to sleep (thus curing my last hangover) around 8
A.M., then stayed up when I woke up to piss around 11:30 A.M. -- both
this very morning. I've stayed up since then, though I didn't want to,
so it should be fairly easy to get to sleep and stay that way for a
while according to a more or less normal schedule. I have a lingering
superstition that it staying on a more or less diurnal somehow is
somehow a good thing, though it's not hard for me to get everything I
really want to do done during the hours of mellow darkness: even the
Rite Aid with the cheap booze is open till 9 P.M. on Sundays. Maybe I'm
just brainwashed or something, maybe by the CIA!1!!

D.

--
"We're legally crippled, it's the death of Love."
................................................................
(C) 2009 'TheDavid(TM)' | All Rights Reserved World-Wide Always

[elephty]

You're not supposed to have contact with NA and AA members outside of
the wonderfully entertaining meetings. The meetings are supposed to do it
all for you, but what is a man to do when a curvaceous thirty year old
blonde
stands up to explain all the naughty things she did in the past couple of,
(choose a time frame.) Though one attends the meetings to free himself from
temptation mixed with heavenly intoxication his motives are suddenly
confused by lustful fantasies he wants so dearly to add to a growing
repertoire
of wickedness that bring a wry smile to his face rereading his patiently
conceived journaling. How must one ignore involuntary growling and
aching loins as her wicked nature calls to him? Somehow twelve steps
seems inadequate to the screenplay he imagines in which they both try
to bring the other the beauty of shame and embarrassment.

Like fine wine wickedness is best shared with those whose only boundaries
are discovered not explained. Complete abandon might ignite their energy
and restore the moral ambivalence that propelled them into the self-flagge-
lation of NA and AA meetings. They might discover that they were not as
depressed as they thought they were and that it was the lack of funds that
made them try to repudiate the lifestyle they so much enjoyed, not as some
try to lead them to believe, that it was the intoxicant that made them pale
and
unable to leave the most pleasurable spaces in one's dwelling, (assuming
one has not yet lost shelter due to lifestyle choices.) Observation tells me
that God is a much more dangerous drug than anything I have ever tried.
No one is sacrificed or fights wars during hedonistic pagan rituals. It
might
be because there is nothing to defend. So what if one is a drunk, at least
he does not have the lord standing on his groin telling him that he is bad
for not submitting to ancient voodoo. I prefer my own, do you?

"'David bin Bedlam'" <thed...@null.invalid> wrote in message
news:cd23$4b2ee671$471db319$10...@ALLTEL.NET...

[elephty]

[elephty]