bukowski's bukkake

 oh hey. you're here again.

looking out of a car window. obsessively overthinking some random detail as the city lights and mundane chatter blend in with the smog into a panoramic cocktail of absolute apathy.

wanting to kill yourself just a little tasteful amount. to experiment with the idea and the fun of it, but not enough to consider it seriously.

Just a little swig of that exquisite wine. Just a little whiff of lady death's pussy. Toying with the idea to show yourself how little you value yourself.

Why are we worrying about whether we may have been born a woman?  Or whether you're bipolar or some shit. Like really crazy cuckoo shit..

There's some part of me that knows its just an escape. Or a more sinister capitalist plot to regulate the spectrum of human emotions to mitigate risk (make more money for richer people).

Why are we worrying about buddhism and communism? You ain't gonna be no buddha or lead no revolution. Your consciousness is about as false as it gets baby.

I feel like my heart has been clawed into by a hawk. It runs through a ravine and scrapes this mortal body along the edges. Like the greek guy whose internal organs were eaten everyday.

The whiplash is comforting, and the hurt it causes is sooo home.

My capacity for depth drilling deeper and deeper into myself.

My morality and resentment suffocating me until I can't move. 

I load up a playlist I remember from when this was much closer to me.

Is it the air? i've heard its' pretty bad. the drowsiness of my eyes. The scattering of my thoughts.

Delhi was never quite kind for me.

Or was it my Nani passing away last week? Nobody really gets over it that fast right?

I should be fine. by sometime.next week?

How much compassionate leave do you get in your job again? Is it enough to start arranging your own fucking therapy?

there's so many inconsistencies in this turtle tower we've arranged around ourselves.

This rage drills into any of them. and breaks it down. hoping that the anger will help me feel.

I want to break it down. Kick it to the ground. Fuck that shit.

But there's something that stands tall inside. Inside these systems too. 

They don't quite give in to chaos. Call it robustness in complex adaptive systems.

I fucking hate not having better metaphors. I can't express this anger. I can't break stuff around me in my thoughts.

Everything seeks to dissolve. Pure rage. Kali.

and yet im floating. enjoying the fact that nothing is ever gonna be alright. 

Impermanencemaxxing.

I hate these mental constructs. So much information and so little knowledge. and my gnarly fucking brain compares itself to others.

How little must they really know? if this is what I have gleaned after prostrating myself everyday to obsessive clarity?

This world isn't the blind leading the blind. Its a dead rotting corpse with its eyes plucked out and flesh falling off desperately reaching out to have more of itself. And the other dead rotting corpse jerking off its black semen to its power to stand in the nuclear holocaust of chaos.

My girlfriend doesn't understand me. But how could she. i feel slightly sad that she can't. slightly sad below my baseline. slightly sad in a log log scale. I'm fucking dying here. hahahhaa

I'm listening again to these songs I've never heard since covid.

Im back home again. In every way possible.

Here is where it started.nowhere glorious. nowhere mundane. This. FUCKING. HOLE. INSIDE ME.

yeah, I haven't gotten better.

My real girlfriend is this paper. I fucking rape it like bukowskian abuse. and i put our recording up for all of you to see.

If you see this, please don't be concenred for me. I'm learning myself still.

You would be better served thinking about what the fuck you're really doing with your life.

I hate how nothing ever quite fits, you know. I'm starting to make progress, and it feels like everything is gonna come together.

and my body just says nope.
the manifestation gurus are gonna be like "This is your old identity fighting back"

 the psychologists are gonna be like "let your inner child cry". 

Fuck that shit.

I'm here. I'm alive. I'm raw dogging it. I don't feel sad. I just feel numb. I shouldn't even be writing right now. Should I be processing it? Is writing not processing it?

I'm listening to arrested youth right now. It's a dish best served with depressive whiplash and the aftermath of a bipolar episode.

Each frequency compression of the music makes you feel like your whole body is being thrown around with it. 

And yet it seems like you're peacefully in the back of a car sleeping in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.

That's twenty one pilots too really. I'll avoid the holes so you sleep fine.

Atleast in their old albums where they still made good music (never miss the opportunity for a sarcastic jab :))

Or maybe I'm the one holding them to catering to depressed 14 year old white girls instead of evolving their music taste.

I really like Tyler's scream on Guns for Hands. It seems to perfectly embody a breakdown. Everything is okay. Until its FUCKING NOT. and then something just shatters. then you're golly and hopping around like a retard again. 

You try to feebly build up a "we're never going there again" in its backdrop.

but oh baby, you know you will.

just accept it.

I don't feel sad about this anymore. I'm just here. I'm just sad. I'm just tired.

Your dharma is to fight Partha. but really, why?

Read chapter 2 again brother.

Time to regulate ourself cuties.

Thank you for reading.