Drunk on Emotions.

Back in the days when my friends and I would go bar-hopping in a college town on the weekends, my frustration and embarrassment with myself began to grow. Behavior always seemed appropriate enough in the midst of inebriation, but on the day following our drunken meanderings and shenanigans darkness would fall on me — and it was like a thick, heavy blanket. I would frantically message or text those I felt I’d been a douche to, silently vowing to myself to behave better next time. Invariably, however, the following weekend was no different.

Wash, rinse, repeat offense.

In my more recent descent into alcohol, much the same thing occurred, only now I did so in the privacy of my own apartment and with respect to my blog. In this case, however, I suffered in silence and, in the clarifying light of sobriety, would ignore my drunken posts — typically poetry — and more rarely felt so ashamed I’d privatize or delete what I’d written and posted while under the influence. I only thought twice if I got a “like” or two.

For a long time, I would pretend that this circumstance required the ingredient of booze, though it’s now clear that this is far from the case. The same damn thing happens to me when under the influence of a mood or emotion. Joy, anger, fear, sexual desire: these were all intoxicants that breed precisely the same circumstances. I say or write something when I’m angry, for instance, only to feel like a fool when it wears off — now intoxicated with guilt, shame, self-loathing, depression. It feels as though I ping-pong between diametrically-opposed mood-dependent perspectives. And be it mood or booze, I think that’s precisely what it is.

The only way to solve this dilemma so far as I can see it to achieve some plateau, some stable baseline of consciousness which I unfortunately appear to lack at the moment save for brief periods separated by emotional roller-coaster extremes. Meditation helps a little, though I should probably do it more. Medication may help and perhaps I should get on it again. And neurofeedback would be awesome if it was both affordable and available.

I’ve got to do something: the oscillation is getting exhausting.


Don’t Stir the Echoes.

for the constipated life.

Got so damned dark
in my cell
until I saw the light
and bathed in its warmth
as it burned away the thorns.

all my vice-grip fears
and the ceaseless, criticizing
chatterbox in my cranium,

decide now
to acknowledge
those whispers and open
myself to the anxiety
as I calmly, stubbornly
refuse to engage
with them.

I’m not what you say.
Doesn’t matter anyway.
I’m not listening anymore.

This is war.

Wake the Apes.

Descend. Shatter all
their precious illusions.
Make it overt.

Fuck this incremental

Chaos will surely reign,
but we’ll wake up,
be better for it
in the aftermath.

Reality matters.
Truth is better off
known in the end.

Decisions will be made.
Its best for all
if they’re informed ones.

Right now,
we’re just apes
that largely consider
ourselves king
shit of the known universe

so please:
expand our horizons.

It seems to me
we’re headed down
a determined
path of self destruction,

willing to drag the rest
along with us in our fall,
all just to live fast,
die young
as a species,

no matter the desert
of ashes
and debris
left in the wake.

I’m just a madman
in an even more insane land.
For both, the ignorance
only exacerbates.


If most people would just communicate — say something to a person, ask a question, leave a note, have a goddamned discussion to gain some much-needed clarification — as opposed to blindly accepting the filthy webs woven by known bullshit spinners, making assumptions, spreading rumors and talking shit when relevant backs were turned, things would go so much more smoothly, especially when it comes to circles of friends or coworkers.

We’re a social species, so shouldn’t communication be our thing? Why the addiction to drama? Don’t we get enough drama from movies and television? Do we really need to provide such fertile fucking ground for it in our daily lives?

Life and the Art of Dramatic Writing.

There is a need for focus, structure, motivation, all of which sprouts out of the seed of premise. Or so the book says.

No premise, no destination.

Devoid of a destination, you have no sense of the right road to take and you become nauseatingly familiar with dead ends and dizzying circles. Like a hamster on a wheel or an analog clock bound to the wall you might keeping moving — all without getting anywhere. You might pull over and forfeit the game; set up camp in the land of the lost, exhausted by your uncertainties. In any case, you still have no sense of where you are or how to get out.

You are still lacking a premise and you know it. However highly you might value self-awareness, you keep up the battle to achieve and maintain high spirits and fight against the tendency for such self-awareness to breed that abysmal self-loathing.

I need to write better. Live better.

Least Favorite Person.

As I didn’t officially meet him or heard anyone reference him by name, I’ve been calling him curly-haired, nervous-looking guy. In my head, anyway. He’s some kid working front counter that just started this week. Today he walked up to me, called me by name and asked for the maintenance keys, but I just walked out into the lobby and opened the door to the maintenance closet for him. As he dug around in there, he forced a laugh.

“I’m your least favorite person today,” he said.


“I’m everyone’s least favorite person,” he said, again forcing a laugh.

“You sound as pessimistic and self-loathing as me,” I told him. “That’s not healthy, man. Nor is it true.”

Yesterday I felt the same way, lost down some deep, dark emotional well without a positive or soothing thing to say to myself. Dangerous depths of depression, vice-like grips of anxiety, rage that began eating itself: that was my day, probably due to the fact that I drank the night prior. It’s not too often I drink now, typically when I’m super-stressed, and I always hate myself for it the day after. Circumstances at work didn’t help. It had all gone downhill from there.

I’ve become too accustomed to these periods of intense emotional turmoil and as much as I hate it, I think I need to seek out prescription meds again. Meditation helps, but I should probably do it for more than fifteen minutes a day.

I should also learn to more successfully combat automatic negative thoughts — ANTs — and talk to myself as I spoke to that kid today. Why is it so easy to say such things to a total fucking stranger, but not myself?

Eyes Wide Shut.

Laughing, slipping
into the blue, embodying
her Shadow,

sharing shameful secrets
with you, destroying all
you hide in the light
and your sense

of moral superiority,
sending you in a tailspin,

obsessively chasing
down the darkness
for just a taste
of the monster hiding
within, donning

the masque, dangerously
dancing with the primal
on the edge of the blade,
peering into the conspiratorial

to know thyself,
to find your way
back to her once again,
each now whole on your own,
both now wide awake:

trading in illusions
for honesty and trust…