It's probably best to be somewhat gregarious and affable, or at least social, when sitting down to write this thing. I'm not of such a disposition. A gaggle of 3 or 4 Vicodin would go down easy right now and take the edge off this ennui and self-loathing. Not that it matters, as I don't have any. No marijuana, either. Just the drugs the doctor gave me and the silent presence of myself. There are chores to do, dishes to clean, a car to clear off and warm up, that sort of thing. The nerve pain in my groin is singing to me, but 2 Tramadol and 4 Ibuprofen will at least muffle the song.
Yesterday I paid the cable bill, heat and rent.
It's not easy when you come face to face with the void. Of both time and space. You may as well make a home for yourself on the vast steppes, because this is it. Take a look around and bother in the now because the now is here to stay and the future is you, and all of us, dead and gone.
Yesterday I spoke with an old Comrade in the Socialist Party. We hadn't spoken for years, but at one time we worked together frequently (1990's). We even traveled a bit together, to the Milwaukee convention.
When I spoke to him yesterday, though, it was brief, snarky and critical of my contention. Actually, it wasn't even my contention, just one that he assumed I'd agree with, and he was wrong. None of that matters, of course, but I'm left with wondering this and that. That and this. Backward and forward.
The only message I have for people who dislike me for no apparent reason is a simple one that you've certainly heard before. It's a long message, but it comes down to mortality. I may be fixated on it, and my own failures, but it's not just I who is going to die after a meaningless life of pain and occassional happiness, it's you, too. It will almost certainly happen before you expect it to, as well. Your death, that is. Most people act surprised.
The next part is controversial, but I'm certain that when you die, nothing happens. There is nothing, and no soul or consciousness to take it all in (that's a happy accident). So you live for awhile, then you get sick or old or are hit by the 87 bus to Davis Square, then there is pain to one degree or another, then you're gone forever.
Kind of makes that argument we had about the Fist and Rose Manifesto seem silly. Then again, given that life is so short (or long, depending on perspective) why would you want to hang around a bunch of cunts you don't like?