All I ask of the future

TUESDAY — On a dull day when nothing happens, what's a guy who writes a diary supposed to write?

Sitting at the typewriter, the first thing that comes to mind is something kinda icky, so I stare at the window for a few minutes, waiting for a second thing to come to mind.

It doesn't, so I'm gonna write about something disgusting and embarrassing.

I haven't had sex with anyone but myself since last May or (depending on how you define 'sex') July. Still, I keep a supply of condoms on hand, not in hopes of better nights, but because if I happen to be wearing a t-shit not yet stained, a rubber can save the trouble of yanking the shirt over my head. Mr Manhood slips into his sleeve, and everything stays neat and tidy, no splashes, no spills.

That's what happened this morning, and upon completion of the task at hand, I fell asleep. When I woke up, my penis was still wearing the Shroud of Turin, and that's not unusual either.

Giving it no thought at all, wearing only that unstained t-shirt and a used condom under yesterday's shorts, I went about my morning's business. Walked into the kitchen for a glass of water and a few slices of peanut butter toast. To the front door to check the mail. Sat down in the living room to pet the dog. Walked into the guest room to use the phone, to check my messages. Back to my room to grab a towel, and then into the john to take a shower.

And somewhere along the way, that little bag of jism slipped off.

Twice I've revisited every stop, and it's nowhere, so I'm giving up. Will I confess it, I wonder, when one of my flatmates finds it? Or when the dog chews it up and spits it out, or swallows it?

♦ ♦ ♦  

WEDNESDAY — Same as yesterday, there's nothing to say about today, so let's turn inward and expunge a demon from deep in my soul.

What am I doing with my life? In my late 30s already, and still, I have no idea.

There are no plans for the future, except, vaguely, moving to New York with Sarah-Katherine some time soon, if and when we can afford it.

Other than that, no goals. No career, certainly. No places I yearn to go. I don't want to bother learning to play the guitar or do needlepoint. No self-improvement classes for me. No intention of marrying, and absolutely no children are in my future.

What will I be doing in a year or five years, or twenty if I'm still alive? You got me. Of course, nobody knows what's coming except the pizza they've ordered, but most people seem to have hopes or plans or daydreams about their future. Not me, no-sir-ee.

Any day, Bill Clinton or Boris Yeltzin could wake up in a bad mood, and there might be no future at all. If there is a future, all I ask is to be alive and healthy enough to be having a good time, same as today. Beyond, that, I will take whatever's delivered except anchovies.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

THURSDAY — Never thought about it this way before, but my bedroom looks like the habitat of an anarchist. There's a place for nothing, and nothing is in its place.

I'm about to start laying out the December issue of the zine, but first it was necessary to clear the unopened and also empty cans of tuna, dirty socks, loose dollars and change, dirty bowls and silverware, old newspapers and other people's zines, butter kept soft for spreading, insecticide, paperclips, batteries, odd ointment, pills, griz, grime, and grunge off the table. 

In the process, I stepped on something that felt peculiar, and discovered that missing condom from a few days ago, stuck under an old Twinkie wrapper on the floor. So — life is good.

From Pathetic Life #20
January 2-4, 1996

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.


  1. Hey I love this blog and share the sentiment, whatever's delivered man. Also love that no ads cover the screen or anything. You cool man.

    1. No ads ever, and I will stand on that principal until death or a pretty good offer from ExxonMobil.


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