Bear

I wake up when I get up, check the alarm to see that I’ve already missed another morning’s lectures; another decision out of my hands: excellent.  I must’ve made up my mind last night too far gone to exercise any impulse control.  I plod to the toilet not feeling too terrible because I’ve outslept my hangover, where I studiously avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror.  My body is deteriorating, but this isn’t an issue so long as I remain unaware of it.  Don’t shower, don’t shave – can’t be bothered, again…

I make a pot of strong coffee; while it is brewing I flip through my CDs, select Sublime, and slip on my headphones so as not to disturb the neighbors, who might otherwise perhaps remark to themselves, while pausing for a gossip in the stairwell, that it seems that the ‘student’ in 13A is spending another day Housebound.

Which might lead them to sniff.

The towel remains permanently tucked under the door, but I don’t delude myself; the scent of marijuana certainly carries; there’s nothing I can do to prevent permeating the entire hallway with skunk when I blaze.  So I am careful not to light up around the time they’ll be leaving or arriving; I have their schedules memorized; I’ve listened in utter silence to their footfalls, spied on them out the peephole; I’ve memorized their comings and goings, though to them I fancy I remain an enigma.

Random thoughts appear and dissolve, I don’t pay them much attention.  I expend no mental energy at all attempting to reconstruct the previous evening’s hours, although I wonder fleetingly how the movie climaxed.  Perhaps I will watch it again, in an hour or a few, skipping ahead to the point I became too drunk to process, one squinted eye concentrating on wobbly double images until it became unworth the effort.

I roll a wake-and-bake spliff, easy on the tobacco – just enough to help it burn evenly, not so much that it’ll induce a cough attack.  Suddenly I realize I’ve already finished constructing it, licked it, and lit it.  Come back to the Now.  Relaxing in my papisan chair, letting the smoke drift up to the ceiling, contemplating the long empty afternoon which belongs entirely to me.

I am naked, of course – why not?  Don’t do much laundry these days.  But decorum dictates I don at least sweatpants, hat and jacket for my daily foray across the intersection to the sandwich shop.  Don’t keep much food in the fridge.  Rather, nothing’s ever left after a binge.  Bill pulled low to avoid interpersonal contact.  I do however give the shopkeeper a friendly hello and a smile.  After all, he is one of the few important people in my life.  I consider him my second-best-friend.  He’s reliable, and never gives me stress.  Never am I beset by paranoia inside the haven of his delicatessen, unless somebody I know happens upon me there – which is highly unlikely, even though this is my neighborhood.  I wanna get out of there quick – he bags up my sandwiches efficiently, without comment, the consummate professional, and I scuttle back across the street, insert my key in the door to the building, gentle it closed, and tiptoe up the steps to the haven of my sanctuary.

I won’t have to emerge again until evening to stock-up for the night ahead.

I put in a porno, and select a particularly interesting scene to which I haven’t yet masturbated, and notice how compulsive masturbation seems to require increasingly taboo stimuli.  Whereas abstinence for 3 months, say, makes a faceless girl from a distance seem eminently desirable.

You don’t need much stimulation to get off if you hold on to your seed for a while, and vice versa.

Ten minutes til midnight in the supermarket – closing time.  I fill my cart efficiently:  beer, baguette, brie, jerky, pizza, strawberries, sushi, steak, wine…  Cancellation headphones cry bittersweet symphony as I stroll down the empty fluorescent lit aisles…  Store’s dead, there’s no one but the cashiers to pass judgment.  No forced-artificial small talk, not at closing time, thank Jesus.  The really ideal thing would be to interact with nobody at all.

Tabasco and whiskey poppers—Fire Jacks…

Forgot rizlas – shit – must roll joint with toilet paper instead.

The big dipper, the great bear; North.  My ancestors, huddling for warmth up in the Yukon territory.

             Where life was ice

                           embraced it

                                     better than I have

Relieved to be out of everyone’s way I drink and smoke and snack and drink and play with myself until eventually my lids grow leaden and I slip into the blessed release…

I wake up when I get up, check the alarm to see that I’ve already missed another morning’s lectures; another decision out of my hands: excellent.  I must’ve made up my mind last night too far gone to exercise any impulse control.  I plod to the toilet not feeling too terrible because I’ve outslept my hangover, where I studiously avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror.  My body is deteriorating, but this isn’t an issue so long as I remain unaware of it.  Don’t shower, don’t shave – can’t be bothered, again…

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