A Typical Mourning These Days
I still hate everything.
Hail Lambpoonies!
Please enjoy a typically busy and totally true morning in the life of yours truly. And remember, every time you like one of my things here it makes me think of Jill Biden no matter where I am.
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3:00 AM: Awaken to a bursting bladder. Or perhaps a cat telling a burglar where we keep the spare key again. In either event, I deposit the lion’s share into the toilet bowl sans eyesight. In light or darkness, a man’s aim is mostly true. Mostly.
3:08 AM: Climb back into bed after shaking out and rolling my hose up. I think about how cool and fun smoking is until I fall asleep smokefree, unsatisfied, and empty.
7:04 AM: A hairless cat stands atop my face, interrupting a dream of a fat Italian lady’s feet eating me. A hind leg at each corner of my mouth and a front leg gouging each eyeball into my skull. A tiny sandpaper tongue removes skin from my forehead. Exposed bone glistens. I think. I can't see it.
7:05 AM: My morning alarm goes off. I flash into action, hitting the Snooze button in haste and error. I launch my hairless cat up into the darkness shrouding the bedroom ceiling. She does not land. I assume she is there still.
7:06 AM: I roll off the bed, curious if my bladder is full or if I need to take my monthly crap. Either event suggests a bathroom environment, so I shuffle down the hall, trying to remove eye-crust accumulated while a fat Italian woman’s feet ate me.
7:10 AM: It was my monthly poop. I am mid-constitutional. It feels like a big one.
7:11 AM: Yep. Big one. I’m currently alone in the house, but a courtesy flush wouldn’t be amiss when the time comes, Robert.
7:15 AM: Should have brought a book or a coffee.
7:31 AM: Think I got it all. What a mess. Brought to me by my medications. No doubt cancer festers and flourishes in my colon, but at least everyone else feels better about me not smoking and gets my stuff no matter what kills me.
7:32 AM: Hover over the toilet and a final flush. Even after two courtesy flushes, I watch to make sure all my offerings to The Lady of the Latrine1 make it down the hole, Tiny Toons style. Take that, Elevator! If you don’t get it, don’t worry. You’ve just missed out on pure animation gold and seven Emmies. Bye, bye, kitty!
7:33 AM: I waddle down the hall to the kitchen feeling five pounds lighter. I put the kettle on, wonder if that turn of phrase makes me sound too British, and stand stupidly in the kitchen doom-scrolling social media and book sales numbers awaiting a boil.
7:34 AM: I try looking at the kettle to make it boil. It does not.
7:35 AM: I try looking at the kettle to make it boil again. Again, it does not.
7:36 AM: I try looking at the kettle to make it boil one last time. It is the last time as this time it works. I drown my coffee grounds in a french press and refuse to capitalize ‘french press’ since that denotes a proper noun and there’s nothing proper about it.
7:37 AM: Wonder why I want to kill myself. Book sales aren’t that bad. Remember I need to swap out my nicotine patch. Also remember I need to take five different pills so I don’t get blood clots around the stints in my heart. If I clot, I die five minutes later. I’m told this is not optimal. I disagree but I play along.
7:38 AM: Jesus Christ. It’s not even eight o’clock yet. Is this thing going to work? It's going to be too long. I can just pretend I spent six hours writing later, but that won't work.
7:39 AM: Yeah, it’ll work.
7:40 AM: No, it won’t.
7:41 AM: Whatever. Substack is free now.
7:42 AM: I wonder how many companies Elon Musk bought this morning as I pick a scab out of my right ear and another from my left nostril. There’s blood, since one of my medications makes me bleed like Russian royalty.2 I imagine Musk does, too. But green.
7:43 AM: I check. Musk didn’t manage to buy anything yet today. I smear blood off my phone and sit on the couch, staring at a television’s black, reflective screen, which is not on. I don’t like what I see. Sick of seeing straight white men on television.
7:53 AM: I realize I am on the television which is not on. I ponder the idea of being on television only if the television isn’t powered. I sip my coffee. That’s some hot coffee, sugar.3 I wonder how I manage to tie my shoes. I thank Ahura Mazda I rarely have to. I work from home.
8:02 AM: I notice I’m two minutes late for work. I panic. I sprint ten feet into my office and move the mouse around. Once the internet tells my co-workers I’m available, I get up and drink more coffee in the living room as ignored notifications ding in my office.
8:03 AM: I flip on the PlayStation before recalling there is nothing to play currently. I conquered it all while recovering from my half-assed attempt at death a few months back. What to do instead? I could write something. Bitches love words. I'll pretend to do that.
8:26 AM: I spend some time trying to remember what I like writing about. I give up as I realize I don’t like anything. That reminds me of The Queers. Not the indeterminates. The band! Saw them a few years back at El Corazon with The Dickies and they both slapped hard. The Dickies passed around a blowup doll that looked like Jill Biden.
8:36 AM: Finish thinking about Jill Biden as a blow-up doll. Add paper towels to the grocery list. Consider starting a revolution over the price of paper towels. Decide not to for now.
8:40 AM: Check on work. Still quiet. Too quiet.
8:41 AM: Hop in the shower to wash Jill Biden off me. Feelings of shame abound as I realize I am a fat, white, unhealthy, drug-addicted clown of a former man. I realize I should not be shaving my anus while realizing anything at all. Not while sleeping around with a powerful lizard's wife, anyway.
8:52 AM: I towel off. The cats are staring at me, shaking their heads. I always forget, for however much I hate myself, these two must hate me more. There are entire hours that go by without me rubbing their bellies, after all. But they’re cute and I love them.
8:53 AM: I sit outside and stare off into the abyss. I meditate on the idea non-smokers who go outside just to be outside are psychopaths. As I sit, not smoking, dark thoughts intrude and I ponder how many people have died by smothering themselves in a duvet cover while Katy Perry plays on a loop.
9:05 AM: I head back into the office and flip on some real music. Old Man Markley today, I think.
9:12 AM: Head back into the bathroom. The twang from the music makes me think of playing Jill Biden like an inbred, underaged kid wails on a banjo in that movie. Realize there are no more paper towels too late. Shuffle the eight feet to the Cafe Bidet - I call the bathroom that sometimes - for a wash in the sink. I don’t have a bidet.
9:30 AM: Work meeting. I enjoy my co-workers. They’re pretty cool. My father once told me two things are always true: You are underpaid (check) and your co-workers are idiots. Tech is full of idiots. But not this time! They are stingy, though.
10:00 AM: A little more work to be done but I realize I can write a daily log as a humor piece and at least flip that “30 Day Open Rate” stat to its customary 1 or 2 instead of the current zero/null value it currently has.
10:01 AM: Start writing.
10:02 AM: Stop writing.
10:03 AM: Slam 200mg of marijuana elixir drink stuff. Stagger around the house a bit.
10:12 AM: Start writing.
2:45 PM: Declare the latest piece complete, rigorously sourced for people who don't read sources, and take some time for me to do all the drugs.
2:55 PM: Read three hundred pages of Agatha Christie. Always fun to me how Poirot goes on about “method" but doesn't actually seem to have one. Just his “little grey cells" and flaming mannerisms and blimpy patriotism.
7:01 PM: Check book sales. Not great.
7:02 PM: Check book sales. Still not great.
7:03 PM: Last time, I tell myself. And it is the last time, since I sold a book. Don’t let anyone tell you obsessively refreshing your sales stats is weird. It’s fucking science.
7:04 PM: If I sold a book, I can afford dinner! Ramen, I think. I’ve earned it.
7:10 PM: Slurp noodles. Watch My Undead Yokai Girlfriend. Laugh a bit. Weird ass television program.
9:55 PM: Pass out to The Dark Tales of H.P. Lovecraft, read by Wayne June. Wayne June rocks. The Senate should hire him to read all bills in that session on the floor before any of those crooks can vote Aye or Nay on them live on C-SPAN 2. I think C-SPAN 1 is still debating the definition of a riot vs an insurrection, so no need to bother them.
3:00 AM: Not today, Katy Perry. Maybe tomorrow.