Stories for Stories
Friday, February 7th, 2025 — 4:09AM
Maybe I get what the eagles were talking about. My first memories of pain are wanting to fly away. Singing on the playground. They might be memories of joy.
Sick of my subconscious. Sick of the psyche. May I undress? Birds have been pissing me off lately. I’ll hear them sing out the same tune again and again and not see a thing. It makes me want to throw rocks at the trees.
I want to change my name.
****** was on the top of the list. Coulda been a real contender. Nicknames have to be given to you by someone with the confidence and wherewithal that you lack. In middle school there were a lot of folks who had that, and they were candid enough to give me that one. Sometimes Brandon reads the same way to me. It doesn’t really matter. Permanent changes could lead to a bad rap, but everything is temporary. What’s in a government name?
Trying to sleep on it. Sleep on it or sleep it off. It’s unfortunate that I’ve chosen a path of writing like this. Throwing paper balls and missing the trash can with an audience of whoever wants to see a picture of a man wearing thin.
Serendipity is treasure until you start worrying about whether or not other people are looking for it too.
I could refine these thoughts and make them more accessible. Less cringe. More cringe. Less manageable. I could send my life off the rails. Live it like a dream, or live it with bowling alley bumpers on. Gutter ball, gutter ball, gutter ball, gutter ball gutter ball gutter ball gutter ball gutter ball gutter ball. He’s good with strangers.
My breath has the aftertaste of beer and it’s disgusting. Took off my retainer because I’ve practically ground it to dust in my sleep. Antagonized two bartenders until they were annoyed enough to make me feel unwelcome. Helluva feeling. Drugs like alcohol make great excuses like that. They almost convince you they can cut through the red tape of our social contract. They don’t. It’s a thin difference in reality. Even the simplest terms are infinitely complex.
I hate the things I’m writing. What is that sentence? What will other people think of me? Will I alienate them the same way I have with countless bartenders, strangers, and friends? My endless need to play with form. Fuck off. I’m figuring out if I want to do film anymore. Reminding myself that I don’t have to, and that I actually don’t know what happens in the future. Identity everything. It’s a terrible thing to build around your work. Should be the other way around.
Gotta update my iOS soon. Subscribe to the next level. Paying my gratitude for my cellular device forward by saying update your iOS. This evening’s deterioration is brought to you in part by Apple. And by Walmart.
Beaner Rivera was also in the running for a good new name, but I’m simply not Mexican enough to use such a word. Some folks will try and protect me but it’ll only help me when I need it. All of this is plagiarism. How this do make feel white boy