Tuesday, June 27, 2017

The Walls Are Closing In

I woke up one morning and bumped my head against the ceiling. I don't remember when exactly this was, because every morning I'm still bruising my noggin on the damn thing. I guess what I'm saying is I've arrived at a point in my life where I feel like I'm in that trash compactor aboard the Death Star; the walls are closing in, there's nowhere to go, and the inevitable end will be messy and terrible. The only "if" seeming to factor into this grim scenario is whether my doom be protracted or not, and how agonizingly long if so.

The last couple jobs — both how screwed up they were and how I failed to keep them in spite of prior boasting that street living inoculated me to drama and bullshit — and the subsequent diminution, my return to the Square One of canning, have I guess sort of slapped me in the face. Don't tell me I can't wash dishes or assemble sammiches part-time! Mayhap street living really handicapped my capacity for Sucking It up and Driving On? Well, I have to try again, in spite of my conviction that I'll be found dead in a doorway twenty years hence. What I really mean by that bit of hyperbole is that the best I can muster will probably always fall just short of the hindrances and hazards likely to be arrayed against me by humanity and the world it doggedly devours.

To be fair, I have quit drinking at least; that awful epoch is floating downstream finally, taking on water whilst fouling the waters ahead. So long as I stay true to abstinence, even if I screw up stellarly and end up back on the streets I won't wake up every morning surrounded by piss jugs full of ochre sludge, spewing streams of Powerade out my nostrils every time I desperately try to quaff down some damage control. A small victory? I suppose I ought to be thankful that I can at least tread water now, whereas when I was drinking I was careening into the maw of Azazoth, holding dark conversations with night gaunts. Put prosaically, I'm not a functional maintenance drinker; even poor and eating crap, the quality of my life and its future prospects are logarithmically improved.

Small victories aside, it really is a pain in the ass to try to get it together only to realize you started too late: you never got to go on the great snark hunt of chasing after dreams; you completely skipped over that life chapter to the one where you're clinging white-knuckled to your remaining days by the reins of expediency...and still you're sliding down Entropy's backside, no matter how tightly you grip. See these photos? Those are of imbecile normies withholding money from the poor by locking up their recyclables. On the unhappy day working and canning are no longer viable options for me, don't think for a second I'll be BEGGING from those who deprived me of my wherewithal! Nope, I'll be stealing, and the fools won't see how they ruined a decent person by the hand of social darwinism.


The fourth photo is of an apartment building that's getting...I'm not sure if it will be renovated or completely demolished, but regardless whatever will be inhabited in its stead will probably have its recyclables sequestered behind locks and bars. Development is also an enemy to us poor for this reason; whoever's moving up here, they seem to be bringing a siege mentality with them...Portland, a collective of gated communities? I need to get the fuck out of here!

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