Stand the Noise of Thunder

I'm up, just in time to get ready to get to WECARE.

I'm bent over the bar, drinking MI TAI's with my brother on Saturday.
I'm busy banging out this blasted Novel like fucking in a porn movie.
I'm trying to get my starship outfitted to fight in space.
I'm everywhere and then again I'm nowhere. It seems as if life is traveling so fast that I can no longer chronicle it with any skill like I once did. I could remember almost everything and write them back in amazing detail, but now that ability is escaping me. I am preoccupied.

I am sitting over the bar after the SHOUT OUT where my brother wants to meet me and discuss his and the SHOUT OUT's future. Cyndi Lauper, the nasty bartender stops before me and looks me up and down. "Hobobob? You're here for a drink?" Yeah, Cyndi, I think that I'll have a Mai Tai. She blinks. "You're joking, right?" No why? "You usually only come in and buy just one beer. I can't see you putting down one of MY Mai Tai's" She chuckles and walks off. She comes back and pours a two handed hit of alcohol up in the air, and then a mixer, shakes it up, pours it in a glass and puts all kinds of frills and stuff in it like umbrellas and a sparkling straw and there you have it.

I started to nurse this mother- fucker down slowly as my brother comes up with his homeless friend, Tom. A rather quiet man with a heavy Russian accent. He is silent most of the time as my brother and I skip around some small talk and then he comes out with the reason why we are having said meeting, "I'm leaving for South next week. So what's up with the SHOUT OUT? Is it going on or not?" It's going on. I couldn't believe I said the words myself. They just tumbled out of my mouth. I explained to my brother how I spoke to many of the poets and many of them would be saddened if they had nowhere to go on Saturdays.

Yeah, I did it. Against my better judgment. Maybe things will work out better than I worry. I just don't want to be a dis- appoint- ment, that is all. I'm not like my brother, and I don't know how sociable I can make the SHOUT OUT all on my own. I am a painful introvert in real life. I'm not as forward and therefore this closed off attitude might rub off on the SHOUT OUT. Maybe D2theL and T-Fuk can help along. Maybe.

Charliqua Lovebiscuit could not care in the least about any of this though. She was surprised that I knew her name when she came out into the waiting room, calling my name. Surprised or frightened. How would you like a near mental patient knowing your name. Many people don't realize that I'm heavily sedated ALL OF THE TIME. I'm not as expressionable on the outside as I am on the inside. I'm pretty closed off if given the opportunity. And so, when we enter her cubicle she talks and tries to be cordial, and I'm the handcuffed dummy. I sit there like a bump on a fucking log, staring off into space. You'd be a little unnerved if this fat Frankenstein, smiled and remembered you by name upon meeting up with him too!

Nervously, or rather quickly, one or the other, she cycles through what it is that I'll have to do for the next three months, and that is to meet with her once a month with an evaluation from my mental therapists this time to see if I can go to their rotten vocational bullshit. I swear to god, if I'm sent back there again, I'm going to take off all my clothes and jump out of the window. Strike the concrete, my head hit with such force that it smashes like a watermelon. That's the end of sending me back and forth from program to program. And I hope my corpse has an erection so people can wonder if it feels so good to die like that.

Fuck them. I'm not killing myself for them or anything else in god's creation. I'm going to sell this fucking book by hook or by crook and fucking write my way out of the hole that I'm in. Write and publish. Two things that is impossible to do, but by damnation I'm going to get it done. Just as soon as I find out what the fuck it is that I'm supposed to do. No one is accepting manuscripts without an agent. Agents aren't accepting manuscripts because they're fuckheads. It's like the recession is hitting everything and everyone. Everyone except Social Services. It's funny that the gubment is extending Unemployment, but fuck everyone on Social Starvation. Get off.

Fuck you back Social Services.

I'm trying to outfit my ship in this damn game, and I'm taking a beating because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, and instead of having a simple primer in using the game, they have all of this confusing shit, WIKI pages and web pages and searchable Knowledge bases, and shit like this that goes on an on. Unless I start picking this shit up with a little more clarity or they can kiss me goodbye after my fourteen days are up. That's the motherfucking truth.

I'm sleeping harder and harder. Things are falling apart on me and I wonder if I'm going to survive much longer. I have a bad back, and now a bad neck. Age is catching up to me. I'm not in my thirties anymore. As someone pointed out to me, I'm almost 50. That shit is true. In three more years I'll be knocking on 50's door, and then after that, 60. I wonder what I'll retire from. I wonder if I'll be able to get a decent job whenever they come back. Whenever they come back. My doctor, Doctor A, tells me that during the last depression, when so many thousands of jobs were shed, the economy NEVER REGAINED ALL OF THOSE JOBS BACK. There was not boom where those jobs returned EVER. The job market shrank, and stayed that way. Period.

That's pretty fucked up for an unemployed dude to hear. I listen to the unemploy- ment figures like many listen to the stock market and my market is plummeting. Shit.

I'm going to take every day...one fucking day at a time. I'm not looking for a future. I'm only looking for a today. OR maybe a week ahead. No more than that.

Fuck.

Hobobob