It’s not mornings fault really. The daylights neither.
A real live human being can only sleep for so long. Unfortunately six hours is about my limit. After that internal alarm clock strikes a hammer against the inside of my cortex bits, it is nice to lay there and pretend to be dead for as long as possible. This gets boring after an hour. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and due to the effects of gravity combined with a spine that doesn’t flex, the rest of me get’s levered into a vertical alignment.
That’s it then. I am up. What now?
I guess it is morning. That means coffee, staggering around trying to get comfortable. Trying to get comfortable sitting down. Trying to find something to do.
Decide to stay home and tidy up.
Ring my spiritual advisor. She says she is reading a book that caused a bit of a stir amongst the Wellington N.A.zi people when it came out. I admit to not reading the book and only hearing some of the stuff second hand, but Kim Hill on Radio NZ loved interviewing the author. I listened to a little of it on the internet (click here) and this got a few hairs standing up on the back of my neck. Not an entirely bad feeling mind you, but one which previously has lead to action stations – war!
She mentioned “heroin” a lot, which was annoying. In fact, I wrote a post about it, Wellington is full of smack. Now I have actually read the first chapter I note she mentions asking a nurse for morphine and then laments the lack of AA (acetic anhydride) and oven equipment in the first chapter of the actual book. So, I guess all her “heroin” talk was just to keep things simple for Kim Hill?…
All in all, I admire her for telling a story on a personal level and putting a real face to a complicated human condition. On a literary note, I feel the reviewers and English lit’ geniuses take their readings too far. Sometimes you can wax lyrical about subjects such as cockroaches. You can define the patterns, the way the sun glistens on their backs… The way they look at you with concern when they see you self harm. But, at the end of the day, mate… They are just fucken cockroaches. You should not put me down for saying “I saw a fucken cockroach scamper across the floor”. That is a nuts and bolts account of living in my flat. I am not going to tell you about the sunlight, the aggressively natured wind at the window, nor am I going to Shakespearish lengths to convey the cockroaches feelings as I squash the fucken thing with me thumb.
I am listening to the radio show again now. And it is annoying me again. She blames others for her getting drugs. Kim Hill, host, admits to getting angry with others for providing MaryJane with drugs. Seriously? Fuck off.
You two are lucky you didn’t come to my place to score with that attitude. I would have told you to fuck off. Then you had have had no drugs. And then you would have blamed me for not having drugs. The fastest way to give up drugs is to blame the dealer(s) for your problematic drug use. We don’t want to hear it. We are dealing with our own issues. But we will stop selling shit to you quick smart until you makes amends.
Before commenting any further, I *promise* to read this book of yours MaryJane. I promise not to pick an argument with you over what is said at thirty four minutes into your radio interview. Maybe later.
Self medicating for mental illness is the normal way into addiction. I discovered this. I re-invent the wheel daily.
Do I write about it and get on radio with Kim bloody Hill?
I would even read some books and learn to write all good and proper. And promise to tell the truth. As I see it, of course. This will, no doubt, be different from the police records. They lie.
And now, seriously – I stayed home today to tidy up my flat. I have spent two hours sitting in front of computer surfing the net and finding some emails from people overseas whom have taken issue with my blog. One claims Americans can read past the first paragraph. I replied that she is obviously too intelligent for the country and needs to move. Not just because she is female, intelligent and I am a single loser who wants to be a proper Dad. I would be a good Dad.
Another email says that they hope I made it to the mens meeting with regards to sorting out some issues with seeing my daughter.
I have been avoiding telling anyone about this. I put fifty dollars of petrol into my car and drove to the meeting. Well, I didn’t drive to the meeting. I had to wait for twenty minutes as there were police out in the street. I am well known to them and they know damn well my car has no paperwork. So I had to lift the bonnet and sit there tinkering in the dark until they got bored and left. This made me twenty minutes late. Then the water warning light came on, so had to go to petrol station. This made me half an hour late.
I drive fast. This made me twenty five minutes late.
I got to meeting twenty minutes late, drove slowly past. Saw only one guy there. Got out car to confirm that this was (A) the correct location and (B) I really did not fit in and (C) this was not the place for me.
Confirming A, B and C from a safe distance in the dark, I returned to car and although considering going to an old BDSM style meeting in town that I once frequented long ago, I drove straight home.
Oh crap. It is now 11.15am and I have to get to the Post Office by noon. Guess I should get dressed. After my fourth coffee maybe.
I will tidy up my flat tomorrow. And do some court paperwork. Promise.
Although might just draw a picture instead.