Everything’s useless, especially songs.
December 31st, 1999, 7.52 AM
I find myself feeling all booted up. I find myself feeling optimistic about the future for once in this stupid life of mine – new day, new month, new year, new decade, new century, new millennium! All this is about as convincing as a meteor. And to make it all better – the beverage I’m currently indulging in tastes just like beer! I am not allowed to have beer, not anymore – mommy and daddy revoked my beer rights a few years ago, and my soul is a landfill for it. It really is most unfair, because if not for beer, what temperament does life facilitate? In heaven there is no beer, so I have to drink it all here – when I am gone from here, who will be drinking all the beer? I’ve tried makeshift fermenting cherries into alcohol of some sort, but all that resulted from that endeavor was a moldy basement and a rat infestation. Is this the life I’m doomed to live now? Is this really it?
I reckon something drastic is in order. I cannot keep living for nothing. I cannot bear the weight of my own head on my shoulders. Beer – “liquid gold,” as I like to call it – was a good crutch, but now it’s gone, and it’s sent me limping and falling over at every turn. I need to find joy in something else, and I need to be content with my circumstances as they are. Change is continuous, yet it feels totally fragmented and out of reach. Everything feels out of reach for a guy like me, and I am stumbling my way through life trying to grasp onto something – anything. I think I ought to write a folk song and tout the composer “traditional” – analog, baby, the crunchy type. I think I ought to build a world of my own from the fragments I’ve picked up along the way, because maybe then, the world will be tolerable to me. My curated little bubble will be good enough for me. I think I ought to write a book. I could be famous… if I put in the hours to write a book, that is – but my right hand is out of commission and has always been.
Less than 16 hours to go… these poor folks, the strawberry stain on the wall will torment them for the rest of eternity – but what’s a man like me supposed to do? Will I light myself on fire to keep others warm? Will I diagnose in them the norm? I hope that – if anything – my roommates will at least appreciate my contribution to this household. Someone’s got to go, for we are fresh out of beer, and the cooler needs to be restocked, pronto. And oh my God, life is hard. I need a getaway, something, anything. I need a pack of Marlboro reds, a sangria, and a beautiful lady who will make me forget about the snakes I have for veins, if for a moment, forget my name, dispose of my identity. But that too is out of reach because I am a poor boy from a poor family, and even my own mother can’t bear to look me in the eye with how I’ve turned out. Did I explicitly ask for such an existence in purgatory where the unborn are kept until their mommy and daddy decide to hug because they love each other very much?
I have set my sight upon this place, and I think it might do something for me. The Titov Vrv – are you shitting me? It is not it, but it is good enough for me, and I can already foresee the glory in my hands. I have my ships ready – I figured I’d baptize this one “the Mayflower,” because God knows she’s a beauty of that variety. I wish I saw in people what I see in this boat – not much work on it is required before it can sail the seas and paint them blue once and for all. The roses can stay where they are, I will join them soon. Inshallah I will join the roses soon – and I’ll bring my guitar along for the ride.
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