From Pathetic Life #18
Wednesday, November 8, 1995
How pathetic is this pathetic life? That’s what I’m wondering as I lie in bed, looking at nothing, thinking nothing, just liquifarting and waiting for enough energy to get up and pee.
Answer: It’s pretty pathetic, so today I’m gonna rip myself apart.
I’ve had perhaps five real friends in my life. One of them I doublecrossed twice, ending the friendship. It was nothing noir or anything, I’d promised I’d help with a major project, then wimped out and didn’t. Another friend, I abandoned by leaving Seattle, and haven’t kept in touch. So I have three friends left, and wonder how I’ll lose them.
My net worth is about $150, not counting the cash value, if any, that my flabby body parts might have on the black market.
I am not particularly bright. When I’m with my friends, they’re kind enough not to say it, but I am gently aware I’m the dummy in the room. What’s amazing, though, and terrifying when I think about it, is that compared to the average boob on the street, I’m Einstein.
And same as being not-so-smart but smarter than most, there’s my writing. It’s the only thing I love to do, and I don’t do it very well (see: this article), but do you ever browse through a bookstore or magazine rack full of People magazine and Harlequin Romances? I know I’m no Hemingway, but people make a living writing far worse shit than what I excrete.
Music is nice but not a passion, and I rarely go to clubs unless invited. By habit, though, all invitations to go anywhere or do anything are declined, so ‘rarely’ means ‘never’.
I am socially awkward, and feel out of place in almost any situation involving other humans. My idea of an exciting evening is to curl up in bed alone, reading a good zine.
Mom and Dad loved me, and did a fine job beating their goody-two-shoes philosophy into me. Not a lot of beatings, mind you, only the ones I deserved. And their morals seeped in under the bruises. When a grocery clerk gives me too much change, I’ll probably point it out, unless the clerk has been really rude. In four years living in and around Frisco, I’ve only snuck through the automated BART gates twice, and those weren’t even attempts to cheat; the gates were malfunctioning and I wanted to ride a train, not chase down a station agent.
So I’m an honest enough man, and a decent citizen, and a very boring man. I yawn at myself in the mirror.
My penis works, and playing with it’s my hobby, but I can count my sexual partners on the fingers of… hey! Thanks to Sarah-Katherine, I now need a second hand to count the women in my life.
Females almost never notice me, and if they do it’s only to walk around me on their way to someone else, so I am not the swinging bachelor I imagined I’d be when I first moved into my own apartment.
Once, I very briefly fooled around with another man’s wife, and it still bothers my conscience, even though we didn’t do much, and the guy was a schmuck, and his wife deserved better than him, better than me.
I’ve smoked marijuana (coughing a lot) and dropped acid, but I’m very cautious along those lines, and generally avoid drugs. When I once found myself accidentally high from cough syrup, I didn’t enjoy it — it scared me.
I’ve been known to drink a beer when I’m thirsty and you’re buying, but I’d prefer a soda. It tastes better. So I’ve never been drunk. Two beers give me a tiny buzz, and that’s enough. Saw plenty of drunks in high school, the kids whose idea of a great weekend was breaking last weekend’s puke record.
In the city, drunks and derelicts are everywhere, living for their next can or bottle. I certainly see the attraction of turning everything in the world to an out-of-focus fuzz, but I do that by retreating into my bedroom, alone with a ham sandwich or four.
Call me a boring man — you’re on page 15 of a zine called Pathetic Life, so ‘boring’ should be obvious — but I would rather sit here, staring at my typewriter, alone with only my unclouded thoughts, than go to a concert or a bar with a bunch of so-called friends.
I would rather be alone, so alone is where I am and where I’ll be, tonight, and tomorrow, and forever.
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.
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