Why I Committed Suicide (19 page)

Today I’m feeling the sins of my incapacitation, confronted with the reality of my own hangover. Aaaaawwwwwcccchhhhhhhhhhh. That long lingering headache that comes with too much celebration is such a shitty feeling. I could dunk my head in a metal bucket of ice water and not feel any worse than I do right now. The throbbing is incessant. Tylenol helps a little but I’m allergic to aspirin. It makes the voices too loud for a morning like this.

I don’t remember much more than what I’ve already written. I spent most of the money I won last night somewhere along the line and Jenifer got pulled over for driving drunk across campus without her lights on. Fortunately we had just pulled into my driveway before the cop turned on his lights and since we were already home he let us just walk into the house without any sobriety tests. She hadn’t had too much to drink but she’s a lightweight. I remember some of the great sex we had and I remember going to bed happy before sleep finally claimed me.

The new semester is going all right, days are flying by since I’m managing to juggle school while working and slacking off. We still occasionally go tripping in Jim’s car and drive 100 MPH down the dark back roads of Texas. There’s lots of good quality marijuana around. The people that I know who are more connected tell me this has been a great harvest season due to the climate in the Western Hemisphere. That could all be hooey for all I know, but whatever the reason, I do appreciate good bud. The air is even getting warmer again though it’s barely February. I’m already looking forward to summer so that I can relax and go on a warm vacation. Speaking of which, Jenifer and I are going to drive down to Mardi Gras in New Orleans this year. It’s coming up in a few weeks. Jen and I have both been several times already but this could be another weekend of romantic debauchery that seals our fates in an enticing soul bond. It should be fun and Jim’s going too, which will work out famously for him because there is much alcohol to be consumed.

Oh to see God’s bounty spring from the Earth, defying gravity and oppression the way the shoes of a fat man struggle to support his girth.

I’ve borrowed a grow box, an indoor growing system, and
this
summer I’m going to try and grow a bodacious pot plant. The seeds are from Andy who lives in the garage apartment behind our house. He smuggled over some plump bundles of genetic joy from Amsterdam in his skivvies that I can plant. It’s going to be quite an educational project, I borrowed a marijuana botany book and it’s looking like this will be far more complex than I originally envisioned. Maybe those advanced Biology courses I took will finally be put to practical use. And people say college isn’t good for anything.

The shoots that I started growing on a wet paper towel in my windowsill have already been transplanted to their new home in my closet. Only the strongest of the virgin life will survive since the grow system can really only support one large plant. I am like a woman. I create life, but I am godlike in that I decide who dies and who survives. Ha ha (evil laugh dripping with icy power)

I also fulfilled a minor childhood dream of freedom from parental censorship recently and got a subscription to Playboy, which pisses Jenifer off to no end. Sure they are all plasticine (porters and marmalade skies), airbrushed women but I am a man and I have to look. Besides it isn’t fair to unleash the constant sexual torrent of sexual energy that’s inside me onto Jenifer’s beautiful body, even if the alternative might plant a feeling of inadequacy in her mind. It’s better to feel a little wrath than having to deal with her unwanted sexual accommodations or rejections. Rejection makes everyone feel bad. I’ve tried telling her I like to read the articles but that excuse is too cliché by now to really be believable. The irony is that I really do read the articles, certainly more than I drool over the obnoxiously large knockers, but it’s a futile argument rooted in something deeper. I would rather look at and have Jen any day of the week but it’s just a woman’s nature to be insecure (how sexist!) thanks to Barbie dolls and their fathers kicking them off their lap when they start growing boobs. How can I say, “It’s hard to appreciate what you have if you don’t open your eyes to anything else” without sounding like an arrogant misogynist asshole?

It works both ways though; she’s welcome to look at men in banana hammocks if it turns her on. The difference is that when she’s turned on, I’m always ready and waiting. I can’t really help that I’m horny about 10 times to her every 1. I honestly believe that’s really just a man thing, a leftover liability of our caveman mutant cross-chromosomes constantly telling us to “breed, dominate, breed!” We grow pubes and something in our brains automatically starts appreciating smooth curves, fast cars and the art of violence.

I spent most of puberty wondering what the hell was going on. Why was I humping my pillow in the middle of the night and getting a stiffy every time Allison Wetzl went up to the chalkboard? Who do you talk to about that kind of stuff? The Church led me to believe God was going to punish me every time I whacked off, so I wasted years dealing with issues about masturbatory morality and coming to terms with feeling bad about spanking the monkey because I was doing it anyway. This guilt went on and on until I finally just realized one day that it really is ok and even normal to rough up the suspect every once in a while. It’s my minds own rational form of “God made dirt, so dirt can’t hurt” logic.

Even though I’m more comfortable flogging the Bishop now, when I think about sex for the 100th or so time every Sunday, I look up to God and try to be thankful or ask for strength instead. I’m not sure if it was the damn Catholics or damn Protestants that gave me these screwball conflicting sexual issues, probably both. What’s even more perverted is that the God association is partly why Catholic schoolgirl uniforms turn me on so much; they’re the embodied image of sexy untouchable purity in a woman. The crazy thought of countless educated beautiful girls desiring to give over their innocent bodies to me isn’t a perverted little girl fetish, just a repressed religious uniform thing. Excuse me now, I have to go bop the bologna.

It seems I have a little extra money saved from leftover financial aid for tuition and my padded work income, so I bought some bad-ass Technic 1200 turntables with a case, microphone and nice mixer for $800 bucks from one of Jim’s good friends who’s desperate for cash. Actually it’s Timothy, the same guy who broke eggs all over our house that one time. I also got all of Timothy’s records, which included a ton of these crazy imported techno albums with break-beats on colored vinyl. Right now my favorite is the techno version of Sesame Street; I imagine thousands of tripping kids bouncing to the familiar rhythms of their youth. It’s so FUCKING cool but I still have to hook the turntables up through my shitty 70’s stereo, with the vintage working 8-track player, so I can’t really make the system thump and the house shake like I want it to. Before I sprung for the 1200’s I was reduced to scratching on an old record player that I modified without the drive-belt and jury-rigged into my stereo, so
any
legit equipment would have been an improvement on what I had. It’s like upgrading from a horse and carriage to a Porsche, now I have the best there is.

To put the enormity of me dropping so much cash in perspective, the turntables I just bought cost more than my first and only car. I can’t really justify the expense to anybody else because my music dreams are only envisioned in my secret prayers to God. I would hate to announce something I really care about and then fail to accomplish anything. I would rather do something and then feel good that I knew I could do it all along. Plus it seems the older I get, the more I learn what I can’t do. You can’t just have a generic dream anymore, you have to have a plan or a product line designed around it. It’s like some byproduct of the 80’s I guess.

My latest revelation for the week is that NWA’s “Straight Outta Compton” is now on my top ten all time album list. I found an NWA single in my records, so I felt I had to mention that. I want to record some of my own music so badly. I want to cut and splice together a collage of sounds and ideas and have the freedom to play with the tracks until it’s a soundscape, an entity unto itself. I’ve got most of the music written I just need more practice and some capital, hopefully buying these turntables is a step towards that goal. I’ve always loved the thrill of being in a band, controlling the emotions of a crowd from the stage is a magical experience and it gives me a rush of adrenaline like a high-stakes gambler. But with a
band
comes drama. I’ve learned from personal experience that band members don’t show up to practice, or they can’t play because they are hung over, or they listened to Judas Priest on the way over and are into a different sound than what I envision for a track. Someone is going to make a mint if they can design a cheap computerized home editing system where people can just be their own band. Why not, I do digital editing with my video projects in school and if we can already electronically load and edit video how hard could it be to translate that to editing sound on a computer?

She likes to make me work when we make love. She likes to grip the back of my arms underneath me and look into my eyes while sweat drips off the top of my nose, my blond wet bangs hanging down, our faces hovering inches from each other, stealing kisses between hot quick breaths. When the orgasmic bomb finally explodes into her brain and body, her clenching fingers become painful, her blue eyes roll closed, she bites her lower lip and tidal waves of pleasurable contractions pass through her hot body gripping my penis with a pulsing sensation. As the fireworks slow their rocketing, her muscles relax underneath and around me. Inside her it gets so slippery and smooth, I come closer, finally resting my body on top of hers, moist skin on moist skin, crushing the breath from her lungs until I reach around her with my arms and roll her relaxed body on top of mine. I watch as she enjoys the slight increase in penetration, letting her get comfortable, moving her hips ever so slightly as she finds the best spots to push onto, eyes still closed. The follow up orgasms are less intense but more frequent and to watch her is such a turn on. When she comes hard enough with me I actually can feel a part of her pleasure. Instead of working towards my own grand finale I’ve learned to appreciate fucking for long periods of time.

When it’s desperate love, it’s powerful. I’m never sure she’s entirely there with me or if it even matters to her during those times, I’m just thankful to be a part of it. It’s less intimate and far more powerful but still I envy how easily she can immerse herself in pleasure. There is always a part of me that stays aware, never wanting to be compromised. My old theatre teacher taught me that I can give 99% of myself into any character I choose to portray, but holding onto that last 1% is critical to maintaining who I am and I’ve never been able to let go of that lesson. I want to learn how to walk the tightrope without a net from her. I want to use her and be used by her. I want to want to.

Today we were walking across campus together, flirting and goofing off enjoying the beginnings of spring. Somehow we got on the topic of my baggy shorts so I felt obligated to demonstrate how they can just fall down when I walk. She really laughed when I showed her and added some sound effects and it made me feel good to hear her laugh. She has such a musical snicker that makes my heart soar. It was such a stupid, silly thing but I would play the fool for her forever if I could see the simple joy that spreads across her face time and time again. It’s been almost a year since we met now and I fall more in love every day even in the midst of our weird life. I hope we’re still goofy in love when we reach 60 years old. I wonder if our obligatory suicide pact will still be in necessary by then? The world seems to have a tragic history of beating true lovers into dust. I’m going to stop writing for the day now lest I delve into speculative darkness. The sun is shining and I’m happy in love. Nuff said.

We’re bound for Mardi Gras for a couple of days even though I suspect Fat Tuesday was earlier this week. It doesn’t really matter, the cold and rain and dreariness drives us, compelling us to roam. We have our fair bit of drugs to do and we are all looking forward to a relaxing free-for-all weekend. Jim and I tried really hard to get Dan to go with us but apparently something weird happened to him; therefore, all he’ll say is “Fuck Louisiana.” I think he got popped for a drunk driving charge or something. I happen to love the state so maybe I’m biased to its true colors. I know the political system has a long history of corruption and civil rights violations. It’s going to be mine and Jenifer’s first Mardi Gras
together
and Jim has even never been to New Orleans at all so he’s excited. We’re prepared for an uncomfortable sleeping situation in Jenifer’s car, all the hotels/motels/B&B’s are always booked months in advance, but we’re all stir crazy enough to do it anyway.

Some of my Delta Lodge compadres are also supposed to be down in the Big Easy but I’m sure it will be impossible to find them in the crowds. Another friend, Sam Escobar (Hispanic Sam), lives with his brother down there someplace in the city but I didn’t ask anyone for directions, which was pretty dumb.

Today has just been a slow meandering road trip through beautiful South Texas and Louisiana. Everything is starting to blossom in the swampland along the roads, turning the constant decay into a beacon of new life. There is a good vibe in the car thanks to liberal pot smoking, freedom and camaraderie. Good tunes always help too. Smile.

.breathe

Mardi Gras was great and it wasn’t. I should say that New Orleans was fun but Mardi Gras wasn’t there. No, the event wasn’t cancelled or kidnapped by masked bandits; we were just a week late, missing Fat Tuesday by a few days. I expected that the city would continue celebrating even after the weekend of Mardi Gras, but apparently the revelry really does officially stop after Tuesday. Oh well, we had to show up late due to tests at school so I’m not mad at fate, just disappointed and Jim didn’t get to see the craziness that Jenifer and I talked so much about on the drive down. Of course we still had a good time goofing around the dirty streets of the city and seeing the sites. There were still some residual lingering crowds from the festivities but for the most part we got the chance to appreciate New Orleans as it exists during the rest of the year. I haven’t seen a more beautiful city on Earth to walk in at night. The yellow light bulbs try their best to cut through the thick moist darkness and insects. The wet streets and the misty airs of the morning time linger with the scents of a different time; the whole city is all so beautifully old and mysterious with its ornate houses, above-ground cemeteries and romance tinged with a taste of too many Anne Rice novels. The French quarter gives off the sense of beautiful corruption that spans the centuries. A city of old money gotten God knows where and dangerous seediness lurking in a labyrinth of alleyways. It would have been wonderful to be brought up here and born into some of the secrets that seem to lie just beneath the good natured surface.