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I can't be good no more

Friday 5/17/19

What a world this is. I take some Melatonin so I can go to bed and get up early and keep fighting, which means creating works of art I can do nothing with right now--this latest one which I'll work on in the morning being a story called "Post-Fletcher"--and I make the mistake of looking around the internet in bed. Rather, lying atop the warped mattress.

A woman in her late forties, enlisted the assistance of her daughter in strangling a pregnant teen with a cord, then had the daughter bring her a butcher's knife from the kitchen so she could cut the teen's unborn child out of her as she died because she wanted to have a kid of her own again because her kid died twenty years ago. The teen was a girl who had come by the place where this sick duo lived on April 1 to pick up free baby supplies. My biological mother was a teenager--fifteen--when I was conceived. You're in a bad spot, you're trying to do right by your child either by making sure they have what they need when they're born or giving them up for adoption and two monsters do that? I swear, there are so many people called people right now walking around amidst us who are not people.

I find that story more tragic than this one, but the murder/suicide crossbow thing at the B&B? Can you even imagine how something like that goes down? You talk about it. You plan it. You check in. You hang out. Have some dinner. Knowing that everybody's life is about to end. Then two of the people get in bed, hold hands, and the third person shoots each repeatedly in the head with the crossbow. Think about that. Imagine if you don't get hit first? So you see this. Or, if you're blindfolded, you hear it. You can ask to stop it. You're just waiting for your skull to be pierced. And you want this? Because I bet you it looks and sounds far worse and less clean than you think it will. Then, after they're gone, and you were the crossbow shooter, you've just seen this horror. You've seen what it looks like to get a crossbow through your skull. Can you even imagine that? So then you do it to yourself? You self-crossbow?

I saw some other story that I couldn't even understand about I think it was a female police officer who put a hit out on her ex and somebody's child. It may not have been her child. I don't think it was. It was confusing. And the price of this hit was seven grand. Seven freaking grand? I'm not trying to be funny about this, but seven grand? And you're just going to murder some people? Murder a child? That's the going rate?

I now honestly believe that 80% of the people in the Western world are some degree of mentally ill.

I saw Emma today at the Starbucks where I was reading James Agee's film criticism. She takes my pen from me and writes Drop Dead on her knuckles on each hand, ala Mitchum in Night of the Hunter (Love/Hate). Dark. Speaking of dark. Yesterday we go to the dog park, and Benecio saunters over to this dog bowl with water in it for the dogs to drink, takes a piss in it, and then starts drinking it as if to say, "yeah, you saw that, that's right, I just did that." He is odd. Emma gets irked that I kind of think he's a moron. I saw her mother yesterday when we were heading out with the dog, and she said that there had been no brownies left outside my door because she has embarked upon a weight loss crusade for herself and were E and I off to have some of our deep conversations, which is what she calls them, and I could have answered, not really, but we will watch the dog make his strange broth and then drink it down. Emma was also irked that I used the word "broth" in this manner, but what am I supposed to say, his piss water? His urine potable?

I ran six miles today and neglected to put vaseline on my nipples so that meant more nipple blood again and me screaming like I was Fay Wray when the water hit my chest in the shower.

Back to bed.


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