Bye.

What struck me most about Wiwi’s death was how its story preceded its happening. I don’t know if this had to do with the shock my uncle’s suicide two years ago, or perhaps because of my family’s unease in dealing with anything but joy, but a full week before that final breakfast, my mother was already spinning anecdotes of Wiwi’s final days into rote cliches.

Folk songs. No regrets. Pain masked by uncomfortable laughter. Champagne. In other words, exactly like every other story my mother tells about her family. And so Wiwi’s death became just another story: distant, sterile, and quaint.

But that’s not what it was; that’s never what death can be. Death is ugly, painful, and humiliating. Nobody just stops breathing. Nobody just collapses in the street after life has painlessly and suddenly left them. Nobody was ever just “killed instantly”.

Over the last few years, I’ve forgotten this distinction between memory and reality, between story and truth. And since this last week has been filled with more uncomfortable truths than the last twenty combined, I feel it necessary to take the figurative minutes of this important time.

In short, I’m back.

You know what? Fuck it. Full disclosure time: the whole reason I’m starting to blog again is that I’m terrified of the future, and I need to make some kind of sense of it before corrupted logic dictates that I swallow a bottle of advil. And before you ask, “what the fuck?” or, “seriously, how the fuck does this relate to anything?” or even, “why is there so little porn on this blog?” know that the answer is such: I’m drunk. Don’t worry, though. I haven’t even begun to plumb the depths of this particular chemical heart of darkness, and with any luck, I won’t.

So me? What’s going on with the old self indulgent piece of shit that writes before you? Well, let us make a list, as is the fashion:

-Before winter break, I followed through with my plan to be diagnosed as an ADD patient. As such, I now get massive amounts of prescription speed at the start of every month. For free! On the plus side, this really helps me to masturbate for protracted periods. Also, it helps me to actually sit down and engage my books…I guess. On the down side, I’m now incredibly depressed and detached, unable to do the few things that brought me joy in this world. And yet, the fucked up thing is that I can’t even feel this depression on an emotional level. The Adderall has finished the job that weed never could: it has almost completely anesthetized me.

-I’ve been trying to get a job. My most memorable experience happened when I showed up for an interview at a brothel, but I was ultimately turned down for the receptionist gig. Really, that story was all set up and no payoff. Sorry.

-Once I tried to wrestle a pig. No I didn’t. I’m sorry I keep on lying to you.

-Oh, and ladies! How could I forget about my wonderful and exciting social impotence?! In the last few months, a few women have allowed me to come to realize a few things. One, my misery is not completely my fault. Oh it may be a huge part my fault, but not 100%. Two, I’m capable of actually being wanted. After both new years and a weird foray into internet dating, I’ve actually had two rather attractive ladies tell me (explicitly) that they want(ed) me. Too bad I’ve got this case of crippling social anxiety, and would thus rather have a heart attack than deal with this malarkey.

So where does this bring me? I’m behind on school work; I don’t see any point in carrying on; I’m drunk on a Friday well before 3pm; my future is a sham, I like bacon these days, etc.

Oh yeah, and my pick-me-up video is “Everyone Says I Love You.” Huzzah for the life well lived…

I was thoroughly impressed.

Full review later this week.

Also, I tried making gnocchi again tonight. It turned out even worse than last time. I really should wait until I have a potato ricer or a vegetable mill before I try this long, sticky process again.

God, I’m such a failure.

Today I tried making homemade gnocchi.

The result convinced me that I am just a cook.

So enjoy the respite from what must have seemed like an interminable whine.

Wish me luck.

After I picked up my adderall prescription for the first time this morning, I felt like the lucky smack addict, minus the shit gift from grandma.