i'm the basement on a monday night. that's not unusual; i'm usually in the basement, monday night or not. i'm drinking a light beer which is unusual but not in the sense that i usually drink heavy beer but that i don't really like drinking alcohol much at all. for a monday, monday wasn't bad. i had an eclectic mix of things to do around the house and one of those things included going into my crawlspace to check on my plants. what kind of plants? the weed kind. it's relaxing—growing and smoking—and health canada sanctioned which is not really the important part but a part i wanted to mention. my doctor gave me a prescription, though i did grow without a license for the first few years but i live in a dead end part of town where nothing happens so who cares. plus the fucking plant keeps me alive. xxxx i got a pair of fake basketball jerseys in the mail today. there's a whole industry of fake shitty jerseys on the internet except they're not that shitty if you don't play basketball or even watch basketball. i wanted something cool to wear on my back deck and i got that. the bigger point, though, is that i wonder what it's like to work in a fake jersey factory. if they don't care about intellectual property do they care about worker rights? when people who work there go home—or do they go home?— and hang out with their friends or family do they say 'hey it was a great day at the fake jersey factory, made some really real looking fake ones but my boss wouldn't let me eat.' i suppose a job's a job right.
it's 10:28 a.m. on a sunday and i'm drinking shitty instant coffee. why'd i have to choose the shitty instant coffee. i guess because i wanted to save the non-shitty instant coffee for a day when i felt like i deserved something better. i'm on the deck drinking the coffee. it's not as hot as it was yesterday, the coffee or the weather. xxxx i have ten years of battling a disability but i don't want to write about it. why don't i want to write about it? because tragedy is painful and when you're not out of the woods why do you want to talk about the woods? but i have to write about something; that's what writers do. they find something in their lives and then bash away on the fucking keyboard until it makes sense. but who am i trying to make it make sense for? xxxx i bought kerouac's on the road a few weeks back, but the original scroll edition. the original scroll edition is one long paragraph front to back and oh my god is it impossible to read. or is it just me? do people like the idea of one long line of thought? kerouac wrote on the road on a typeriter using a single roll of paper. i'm not trying to be kerouac; i just like his mechanics. except for all the barbiturates he took. also i'm never going to be able to read my writing on the steve allen show and that bums me out.
clear thinking is hard work. but what about chaotic thinking? chaotic thinking is hard because you're flying through your mind at a thousand miles per hour not knowing where you're going to end up. where the hell is this next sentence going to go? no idea. but it's going somewhere. xxxx it's 2:27 p.m. on a Saturday and I'm sitting on my back deck. It's not as hot as it was the past week, but it's enough that i'm enjoying going back to the fridge to get a mason jar full of diet coke—it's got extra caffeine in it and the flavour is a delightful 'toasted vanilla.' i'm going to keep doing that until there's no more diet coke to drink then i'll switch to watermelon-flavoured soda water. it's the best soda water. xxxx i'm back to sending letters to people and i think that's great. the only problem is i'm using a new typewriter–well, an old one— and i haven't worked out all the problems yet—like the U key keeps sticking UUUUU and I keep referencing the fact that the U key is sticking in my letters so if I want to stop that i'll either have to switch to one of my other typewriters or fix this one but i'll likely have to do both. xxxx Speaking of meta, if you could only see all the red squiggles below all the words i'm typing. i'm not even looking at the screen right now. the sky is really blue today, and it's much more interesting than what i'm writing here. xxxx i always say you need to be writing about something, but what if nothing is something as long as it's earnest? i'm being earnest right now i think, even though i've just admitted to barely paying attention to what's on the screen. but if you take this for what it is— an insane writing exercise— it's earnest. and that's the best place to be in life—the valley of earnest intention. xxxx my mom has a couple radlers left in the fridge and she didn't say i COULDN'T drink them so i think i'm going to stop this and go drink that.
it's 11:30 p.m. and justin bieber is in my ears. he's always in my ears. why is he always in my ears. i guess because he's a pop phenom and i'm a sucker for pop phenoms. wait now rita ora is in my ears. she's a phenom too. kind of. usually when i haven't written anything in awhile i talk about how i'm going to start writing more but i'm trying not to make promises in hopes i can convince my subconscious to write more garbage on here every day. no, not every day. maybe every other day. but who cares because i keep the dates off here so if you're reading this, everything is chronological starting from the date you're reading this. just count backwards and you'll be fine. man that rita ora is good. is there any benefit to putting unedited garbage like this out onto the internet? of course there is. this is my brain connected to my fingertips transferring energy to a screen. who cares what the hell i'm saying that's pretty goddamn cool. what am i going to do tomorrow? i have no idea. who cares. life's just the present. you think too much about the past and future and you forget what's in front of you. there's a song in my ears right now and i don't know what it is but i don't want to take my concentration off this screen, though i almost lost my concentration because i keep spelling concentration wrong and i have to go spellcheck and that means using the trackpad. ok fixed all the prior spellings of that word i'm not going to spell right now because i don't wanna stop this writing. am i done yet? i have no idea. yeah let's say i'm done. I'm just going to go to the end of this sentence. There.
I take sacks to the face whenever I can,
don't need no crutch.
I'm so keyed up 'till the joint be burning my hand.
Next time I roll it in a hampa,
to burn slow, so the ashes won't be burning up my hand, bro.
Hoochies can hit but they know they got to pitch in,
then I roll a joint that's longer than your extension.
Cause I'll be damned if you get high off me for free,
hell no, you better bring your own spliff, chief.
What's up, don't babysit that better pass the joint,
stop hitting cause you know you got asthma.
Crack a 40 open homie and guzzle it,
'cause I know the weed in my system is getting lonely.
I gotta take a whiz test to my P-O,
I know I failed cause I done smoked major weed bro.
And every time we with Chris that fool rolling up a fatty,
but the Tanqueray straight had me.
It's breakfast, my wife's at work, and I'm trying to get our two-year-old to eat his spaghetti.
(Don't ask—it's his favourite breakfast food.)
Jarrett Jr., spaghetti sauce smeared across his face and noodles flopping out his mouth, looks at me with a menacing stare only a two-year-old could give and whispers:
“Papa, you know I'm not real, right?”
I dropped my jaw, and the spaghetti.
Not real? I remember the labour my wife went through–I couldn't let this kid deny his existence. He might be top dog at his Montessori school, but he's still a pup in this house.
“Kiddo, I'm feeding you your morning spaghetti. You're real, and Mama and I love you to the moon.”
I held my breath and waited for his response. Had all the pasta cooked his brain?
“Papa, people on LinkedIn make up things all the time, like inspirational wisdom from an UberEats driver or some guy pretending to have a wife and verbose toddler. Everyone needs to chill. Maybe even try some spaghetti for breakfast.”