Rambling like a mad man on mescaline. Maybe living in a Chinese room.

I’m not feeling very anything right now. It’s like maybe I’m a character in a comic novel. Not a crazy comic novel, but a weird, dark comic novel like Dead Babies or maybe something incomprehensible like Finnegan’s Wake. Despite Descartes, I sometimes question my own existence. I am filled with nothing, rusty water and despair. There may be too much blood in my whisky stream.

I want to paint rabbit ears on my cat.

I’m very proud of being useless.

I am past the point of believing that I have value.

Like Henry Chinaski, I know that my obit will contain the words “minor poet” even if I don’t get lost in the woods. At night I sit alone and shuffle poker chips with my left hand. The right one trembles and scatters the chips. I listen to Coltrane sing about a love supreme and wish that I could get past regret. Nevermind. Regret is all that I have.

Makers Mark, Valium, and Xanax make a perfect cocktail. I sliced my palm and let the blood drip into my drink and watched the crimson diffuse through the amber making spider webs of life. I drank it down, consuming myself. Maybe that’s a metaphor for something, but I don’t know what.

I wonder if it is possible to be certain that you are the same person when you wake up that you were when you went to sleep.

Nothing says I love you like an Amber alert.

I bring a girl home from the bar and after we fuck on the couch I make her watch as I burn myself with cigarettes until she can’t take it any longer and leaves without even putting her shirt on. When she’s gone, I kind of miss her, but at the same time the thought that her panties are getting all crusty while she is on the street hailing a cab topless makes me smile.

Someday the planet will be cleansed of humans and all of our shit will be wiped away by rain and wind and things will get back to normal. I wont be able to watch American Idol, but then I never did anyway.

If I stood at the north pole, I could watch the sun rise in the south and feel absurd.

We are all dead men on leave.


Other stuff:

The new thing that I mentioned before (the thing involving Cotard’s Delusions and the Chinese room, and such) is going to be called A World Without Me. I like the title because it fits, and because it is a double entendre and because it sounds like a Roald Dahl title (think of Someone Like You) and because it sounds sad.

I’m reading a lot of medical journals right now.



  1. Hey Nate, thanks for checking out my story in Black Heart and the kind words. I like the dead men on leave shout. My baby daughter is crying upstairs. I need to make her some milk. Good bye.


  2. i think maybe stuff like this is why i bookmarked you


  3. david: hope she enjoys the milk.

    xtx: thank you.


  4. Come on dude. Seriously. DO NOT BE FUCKING PESSOA. It’s just temporary. Maybe not. I dunno, but just don’t be PESSOA. PESSOA was an ASSHOLE. I like the COLOR GREEN ON MY KEYBOARD WHEN I TURN MY CAPS LOCK ON.


  5. Okay now I read this post again. The part about the girl was really amazing. You’re just disjointed. It’ll all be over soon.


  6. I really like your comments. There is truth there. I can’t help being disjointed; someone stole all my joints. Cheers


  7. By the way, this: http://phmadore.wordpress.com/2009/04/02/reprint-if-i-may-not-that-the-alice-blue-archives-arent-good-enough-for-me/#comment-228

    is a great story. I loved it.


  8. I let gay hookers choke me while I blow them


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