Tuesday, January 4, 2005

That was then, this is now

Soundtrack: Swervedriver / Duress (Don't know it? Listen to it. Killer.)

Maybe it's because I've been reading David Sedaris, which has been by the way, infinitely more satisfying than reading The Corrections, Modern Masterpiece though it may be; or maybe because in one and a half hours I will be turning 32. Maybe it's because the moon is now waning and it is in the second half of the waxing moon when Capricornian Goatboys should feel truly on fire. Maybe it's the cocaine I did on New Year's Eve, this though is most implausible as I partook of a frugal three lines and was in bed by 4 o'clock when previously I have been known to stay awake for nigh on 96 hours and have managed to bounce back without getting all philosophical and maudlin. Sure I felt like a bucket of hog jowls that had been mauled by a rampaging chimpanzee, yet I always managed to do so without having to delve into my inner psyche, probing and sniffing the synapses of my emotional computer. I don't know what the fuck is keeping me here. Chain smoking and shooting my self-indulgent word jism all over you. Kleenex anyone? On your tits you say? Close to the heart. That's how I like it.

But here I am. Just another verbose fucking blogger crapping on about life's little idiosyncrasies. No current affairs here mate, no Top Ten lists, not even another orgy story to share as that seed has long since dried out and crusted far below. Not to say I won't happen to find myself at some other Sex Party in the near future, God knows what awaits me, but here in Hell, God comes in short supply.

The odd exaggeration aside, every story I have told on this blog has been true, and yet, all I have written about it the side that earnt me the nickname "Madman" so many years ago. I kind of like that. Nothing worse than returning to a blog that previously entertained you and finding some sort of morose post detailing the writer's woes and tribulations, broken dreams and lost opportunities. Then again, I made this spot. It's my fucking crazy spot. I have many friends, a lot of them wild and crazy, but were they ever to ask me to join them for a beer whilst they poured their hearts out to me, I would never turn them down. BUT fear not fellow scribe, for I am not about to bore you with such troubles. In fact, the funny thing is, life has never been better. I am in love. I work for myself, successfully, I am (chain smoking aside) quite fit and healthy. I have not a fucking thing to be angsty about. Which is why it's shitting me that I'm fucking sitting here crapping on in the middle of the night. Insomnia? Meh. Nothing a few shots of Tequila can't fix. Malaise? Cheap this time of year. Boredom? Boredom. Hmmm...

Don't you loath smarmy people with their, "only boring people get bored" phrase? I'm not a violent person so I have no response readily available when faced with this offense. On an "on" day, I would simply cry, "WOOHOO!" and dance like a monkey in front of them, drink a shot of jagermeister and laugh at them so hard I would be dripping black snot out of my eyes. But on an "off" day, it hurts me to think the limit of my intellect is to simply ignore them and hope to fuck they go and smarmy themselves the fuck outta my face.

But I don't think that boredom is what is keeping me here either.

I'm looking. I'm looking for something. I'm looking for something so hard I can no longer see what the fuck it is I'm looking for and I'm sure as hell it's right in front of me but fuck i've been staring for so long it's all out of focus and even if I had already found it would I even fucking know? I can see the word-connection now, blogging / bogging. I truly am sitting awake at night having a gigantic vocabularic crap on my computer screen. No wonder writers drink coffee and smoke cigarettes all night. You have a coffee and a cigarette first thing in the morning and I GUARANTEE the words will flow straight out of you. The Publish Post button and the Save as Draft button just an electronic half flush / full flush.

But let's get out of this facility and tell some wild and wooly fucking stories.

It's my birthday.

Two years ago I received a text message out of the blue from a brothel called the Daily Planet. It read something along the lines of, "Dear Mr. Barker. You have been chosen to receive a free half an hour visit to our premises to celebrate your thirtieth birthday. Please show this text message and proof of identification at the front desk to collect."


Now, I have made a promise to be truthful on this blog, so I'll tell you that in my past I have paid for the god awful guilt / pleasure that only a certified Lady of the Night can provide. So I wasn't particularly taken aback by the thought. I was however, a little perplexed as to how this particular Den of Iniquity, which I had not been near for nigh on ten years had not only known my birthday but also my fucking mobile phone number. What the fuck, they keep a database? DNA samples?

Now, at the time I was in a beautiful yet waning relationship, which had reached the point of my partner occasionally checking my phone for any stray text messages which might have explained my regular disappearances. In actual fact, amphetamines were the cause of my little "walkabouts" the fact that I was sleeping around and causing shitloads of trouble whilst on these amphetamines were mere by-products.

Anyway, I knew that it was unsafe to keep the message. Really, I didn't even want to go. But the fact that they had gone to all this trouble to text me and the fact that it was such a dirty little secret to have that message on my phone, kind of turned me on. That's fucked up. That's probably why, though I possess a caring soul, I always have had trouble in long term relationships. Because little secrets turn me on. Now I know girls like that too. Makes life...interesting, in a completely dysfunctional way. I think I'm getting over it. I think if it happened to me now I'd take the text, show it to whoever I was with and say, "Woohoo! Free Hookers! Wanna come?" If they replied in the negative, at least I'd be guilt free.

Anyway, the message. This is where it gets weird. But I have to digress I'm afraid.

Many years ago, I decided I needed a computer. I needed a computer like a junkie needs a fit. Yet, I was so piss-ant poor I probably couldn't have afforded a second hand fucking Commodore 64. In my desperation I turned to my ex-Step Father and asked him to guarantor a finance agreement with a computer company that I might take delivery of my plastic fantastic. To my surprise, he agreed. To my even greater surprise, before i had even signed the fucking agreement, in fact, before the paper work had even arrived at my house, the computer did. There was a knock, I answered, the delivery man handed it over, then he left.

I couldn't believe it. I rang my Step Father and told him the story, he told me to keep my mouth shut and if he ever heard anything, being the guarantor, from the finance company he'd let me know and then I could pay. Until then, stay down low and go go go. Sweet.

Nothing. For years. Not a fucking peep. Every now and again, I would speak to my SF and he would say, "ever hear anything about the computer?" and I would reply, "not a fucking thing! you?" Nothing. Anyway, this charade went on for maybe three years before it dawned on me that he had just bought the computer for me. I rang him up and confronted him. He laughingly replied, "Happy Birthday."

I never went to the brothel that year. I deleted the text and strove to be a faithful boyfriend.

I did however receive a text message the next day.

"Happy Birthday."

Don't you think that's fucking wrong?

It's half an hour until my birthday. You can contact me on 04.........

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