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Despising the World Okay, so now, I'm 'blogging, in true fashion. No, I wasn't before. You see, blogging is when you sit at the computer and you type your thoughts straight into the little box where you put what you want to post to update. I do not normally do that. I usually have a specific issue in mind, a purpose, when I start writing, and I usually do it with some implement of writing in my right hand and a notebook beneath. Not so today. Well, actually, there is a purpose, but I'm just typing as I think, and trust me, thinking, right now, is incredibly difficult, as I have the kind of headache you read about, which is, yes, entirely my fault, because I went out drinking last night. But on to the thrust of my point. (Ugh, bad pun, and completely unintentional, I assure you.) You know how much I seem to hate fags? Yeah, well, sometimes, it's really super-true. Last night, I went with some acquaintances ('cause "friends" is really too strong a term for most anyone at this point, I think) to Park, at 10th Ave. & 16th St. There, we danced, we chatted, we chatted with other people, we drank. I found myself chatting with someone who was chatting with one of my acquaintances, who is actually a very nice guy, but dreadfully tiresome sometimes and needs an off switch. Turns out the boy was from schmahvuhd, the big crimson pool of suck up in Cambridge, and is a singer. Now, I, of course, being a Yale man and being drunk, found this deeply amusing and felt we should chat about it. Apparently, however, and I must have asked at some point, because he actually told me, he found my acquaintance "more fun" than me and exhorted me to tell acquaintance to friendster him, 'cause he'd actually quite like to go on a date. I am DJRainDog's violent poisonous seething rage. So I did. 'Cause I'm a fucking GOOD GUY, do you dig? (And therein, of course, lies the tragedy; I go do wonderful sweet nice things for people, and the universe continues to fuck me bareback up the ass for no good fucking reason!) So I go find my acquaintance, and I send him off in the direction of the tall hot boy who apparently thinks acquaintance is more interesting than I am (after much punching in the shoulder and shouting above music and crowd of "Go, go, go! Go NOW!"), and then, I go and I get my coat and my discman and my coffee mug, all of which I'd been carrying around all day 'cause I hadn't had time to go back home to motherfucking Alaska to drop them off in the course of events, or to change clothes, and I stumble through the snow up to 8th Ave. and 23rd St., which is actually not the nearest subway stop. On the way, I try to phone my dear friend who lives in Louisiana, who's been through a rough patch lately, what with getting bitten by a brown recluse spider and being hospitalised for about a week. Now, of course, I shouldn't be phoning people at 3 or 4 in the morning, but I know I'll only get his voicemail, 'cause he never answers his phone; he just always calls me back. But this time, the number is temporarily out of service. Not to worry, it's not the first time it's happened, and we always find each other again (I have his father's cell phone number), but it really fucking sucks to be unable to reach the one person in the world with whom you MIGHT be in love, let me tell you. I should've asked him to stay with me a month ago when he came for a visit. Then, I might not hate the world quite so much. So eventually, I manage to reach the subway, being checked out by a handful of the residents of that hell-hole known as Chelsea (It's only a hell-hole 'cause I want to live there, and I can't afford it) on the way, and I sit on one of the benches and start reading my book, and a cute boy sits down at the other end of the bench, so naturally, I make small-talk, and we continue chatting in the train until he gets off at 163rd St., despite the fact that I think he is rather rude and hasn't had much good or interesting to say and has very bluntly pointed out that he realises I'm drunk, which of course is true, but there's no need to be like that. Eventually, I get home, and I fall into bed, thoroughly convinced that this city will NEVER be home. And now, I lie in bed, dreading the band rehearsal I have this afternoon at 2, and despising the world (perhaps the one trait I share with Mother Mary), and desperately wishing this ghastly headache would go away and that I had somebody to fuck. And that is all. r
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