Irreversible Mistakes

Two of my best friends and a bunch of whisky.

I remember looking out the window of my dad’s apartment on the tenth floor, where I was going to stay for a few months while I looked for a job and an apartment in the city. This was back in 2005 and I would have been 21.

Lady pictures and a self poor-trait.

I’m pretty sure autumn is a time of reflection for everyone, not just me.

I’m writing this entry on paper, with my dad’s pen. That might not sound like a terribly interesting fact to open with, but you don’t know how I got his pen yet.

It occurred to me that the audience for posts about COVID-19 might be people from the future. Maybe they want to know what it was like to be human, way back when everybody was locked inside, alone, to stop themselves from killing each other.

There were moments where the doctors seemed to imply it might have been something else (particularly, cocaine), but then they’d run another blood test and go oh, shit.

Maybe today is your great big day off. But what will you do with it? You can’t just watch the telly all day, because even Alex Trebek gets a little stale after a while. Ever since he lost the moustache things haven’t been the same. When was that, 2003?

I came across a dead bird on the side of the road and I thought, hey! There you are, there’s my guy! It was just what I needed.

I have no particular need to explain this to you, but I’ve been collecting pictures of myself yawning for about 10 years now.

Random shit I’ve done recently. Let’s not be precious about it.

The skylords have decided not to drop any snow this year, but to come right down and gently lay a sheet of ice across the ground. The fog just kind of rolled in and splayed out over the earth until it hardened and stuck there. Lazy and uninspired.

From my perspective, getting drunk and falling into a forest where I’d heard a girl would be makes a whole lot of sense. There is really no reason I wouldn’t do that. But if I was to try and set that stage a thousand times over, I would be a little surprised if a girl showed up once.

Dating a writer is a terrible idea, mostly because writers fucking write about everything.

Did you know that Paul Quarrington died of lung cancer a few years ago? Of course you didn’t, because you have no fucking idea who Paul Quarrington was. But even if you did know who Paul Quarrington was you certainly wouldn’t have known that he died of lung cancer a few years ago, because if you did you would have told me.

I am basically too tall to live anywhere.

I guess I thought it would be a great place to watch the rapture, because cows and religion go hand in hand as personal interests, but when that didn’t pan out I had to find something else to do.

Just some pictures from a walk in the woods.

It’s a bit romantic. Like death.

I had been under the impression that if they pulled a tooth, they would put in a new tooth. I guess you’re supposed to ask. It all happened so quickly, and I wasn’t briefed in advance. I just had a toothache is all.

Once you see me soaring through the air like a gazelle, there’s no way you’ll be able to resist my awkward advances.

I song I put together as a panic attack cure. I think it works!

Today we learn how to be a proper badass.

Some pictures from 2005.

I used to go here a lot as a kid. And then I went here once as an adult.

It’s been so long since we’ve really talked.

There’s a little bridge over a little brook surrounded by trees, next to my dad’s apartment. The smallest possible but most convincing piece of nature, at the center of a grove of brutalist concrete buildings.

In which our hero doesn’t meet a girl.

The bus was a sea of grey and expressionless faces, contrasted by yellow safety rails, garish advertisements, and a dozen songs playing at once. An overstimulating mess of nothing, like a casino or a carnival, but on the bus not one person present wants the noise.

In which our hero robs a convenience store.

The first time I saw a boob in person I was twelve. The girl was fourteen or fifteen, and her boobs were probably bigger than my head. I had been trying to get her to take her shirt off for months, and one day I came up with the plan that got the job done.

Say what you will about a man of the cloth with his hand in a little boy’s pants, but in this instance it seems to have worked out for the better.

I don’t have a memory of being born, which is probably not surprising. What’s surprising is that I THINK I do remember it, even if I know that has to be wrong.