Red Bull Blues

Totally sober–except that Red Bull she bought me. I asked for the small regular one, the original that came in the little can, and she got the huge double sized fucker. She’s a complete lush, and it’s not like I have feelings for her, but I wish she would take better care of herself. For herself. She was sweet to my daughter. I used to do better–and well, she’s gone now.

I used to have better–but with things the way they are, living at home, no money, and most of all no motivation to get any–I’ll take what I can get. Having become so spiritual that I fight with others to make the world better around me, and it must have an affect somewhat to the opposite. Things that Jesus and His disciples said, there’d be times like this, when it would be required of one to stand firm in the evil time. Am I really the evil one?

I don’t even buy into that shit anymore–good, evil. They are just expressions of peoples’ expectations of each other and whether or not they are being met. What a petty thing, to divide everything into a diabolic separatist reality. That isn’t true, nature isn’t that way, only the limited and controlled thinking mankind could ever devise anything that simple. It’s too simple.

She has to work her ass off, she needs the money. I suggest she gets a bike but she doesn’t want a bike. She gets rides–and I wonder, who else did she fuck? She’s got terrible bruises on her legs, black and blue like she’s been goddamn battered. It’s from work. Running into tables–I can actually buy it because with the type of drinking in which she indulges, she must have thinnish blood. Sex is bland and empty. Just a pussy.

Funny thing is, and I’ve said it before, I’m sober as a goat. Except that Red Bull, the one I didn’t finish, pouring a third of it in the sink. That’s how clean and sober I am right now. The cup of coffee beside lukewarming to my hesitance. And I remember when I was a terrible, horrible monstrous person who did not give two fucks about his own soul and certainly not about yours or yours or yours. When I had no car, and got rides, and drank everything i could drink and ate all the pills, fungus, smoked all the pills and fungus and buds. When I used to convince people to take me all the way down to Denver to pick up cocaine for their own interests, and I would always scam them a little so I could get my speedballs. And then after they were good and high I would convince them to take a shot with me.

“Are you ready?” “Yeah.

“Are you sure?” “Yeah.”

“Are you positive?” “Yeah.” “Say, ‘Hit me!'” “Hit me.”

Even the one guy who was totally reluctant to try a speedball with me, I talked him into it, and we’re talking about some many years ago–maybe eight years ago? When I finally talked him into it, after I gave him the shot, he looked into my eyes and thanked me like a fresh vampire who’d just been given his immortality. Even for my darksoul, that was a bit uncomfortable.

Back in those days I had all kinds of “fun,” and was surrounded by “friends,” and had things “going on” in my life. I was spinning out at the clubs all the time, and all I did was live for myself and use everyone, everything around me. You see, I really was a vampire, and the world loved me for it. I was good at it, at feeding and infecting. I worked for a devil back then.

But that is oversimplifying, isn’t it?

Nowadays, with my piss warm coffee staring me down, daring me to do something, to be someone, and I get left with huge can of Red Bull I can’t finish after sex I didn’t enjoy, I wonder where is the pride, where is the sense of satisfaction that I made the choice to turn around and do the right thing? Why, how is it that for living a life of evil one is rewarded and living a life of good leaves one alone with the blues?

Meh. The coffee was a little bit warmer than piss.

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