Lazy from C-Z

'Twas a sweet evening, but overall uneventful, yesterday was. It was mounted on the carcasses of inevitability from the first, with no hope of reprieve. It is supposed to be the case that I should have been halfway to London by now. My journey began yesterday and crashed and burned only an hour or so later. Thorough cowardice and forced elation. Slowly I have acclimated (acclimatised?) to my new nature. Sleep no longer was a pained affair. I wake up and go before anyone barely notices. The only witnesses I have are coming from the eyes of uncaring rubbishmen doing their morning dues. Today the plan is to just not die. By hook or crook, I will survive. Come tomorrow, I will be back in London working once again at Mansion House and Vintners, the usual piss-posh. Wembley after that for two days. Ecstatic, with a little bit of last night's mackerel stuck in my teeth after I threw up a little bit in my mouth after saying that. Tragedy is what would be if a single shift gets sha...

Today is my third day here in Brighton, and it is hardly what I would consider a pleasant experience. However it is not without its own sweet moments. I myself do love to partake in the glorious minutes of peace that I oh so left with my old life. Old habits simply die hard. The plan today was to walk home back to London, and I then chickened out seven kilometres through with my tailfeather tucked neatly inside my asshole. I can still feel the nagging discomfort my anus seems hard-pressed to let go after the morning shit once I was done with my first coffee inside the McDonald's lavatory in Marina Village. It had been a few days since I had let go, and so it felt like a rubbish dump that turned into a nuclear warhead somewhere in between. My gastric space now feels as if it had been turned into an Arizonan launching site and is still reeling after a test run. Also today it feels as though my career as a petty criminal has finally been made official. It almost feels second ...

She was lost to me completely the moment I allowed to let her go Now only the memory of our sweet escape remains I have to start saying no I have to learn to say no She was lost to me from the start She was there sitting beside me when I woke up yesterday And she was there today doing the same I have to start saying yes I have to learn to say yes She was warm to me to the end Our hearts were far apart Maybe just a little bit Maybe because I think it so Or maybe because I'm just afraid She said goodbye, and I hugged her twice for good measure She went in,  and I walked away I turned around, and she turned around She never sees me, and she walks away She walks away She walked away

Some days are filled with tedious nothingness that the only reprieve I can muster are the same things that I routined back when I had what resembles so close to life. Nowadays it has been somewhat a blur. Little things that pile up to turn into... a thaig of little things. Just like what it feels pretending to be Russian dolls undulating in the peripheries of your windshield. It has recently felt like an extreme change of pace from the way I lived my life before compared to where I find my position to be in at the moment. My greatest enemy all of a sudden are my basics of needs; food, shelter, companionship, camaraderie, and whatnot, etc. Not to say it is absent but it feels very antibody-like, and I am a pathogen. I am my own biggest autoimmune disease. My body fails me most of the time. I have been experiencing epistaxis, at the most random of times at that, more often than I bother to count. My head feels heavier due to which I reckon is lack of proper sleep, or a timeslot with...

It has been the most awkward of months since my birthday a few weeks ago. Left home when nothing else was in tow for me. Everyone else around me seemed to give up, and I was left to fend for my own against the harsh jungles of urban England. Homeless is not a word I am unfamiliar with, or even comfortable with, but here I am, a month later, just that. A few days deprived of a good night's rest. I have lost more of my possessions than I am in procuring them, and I have not enough resources to make do with what I have. This is not like one of my spiritual gallivantings where I go walk towards the deeper yonders of neverwhere. I now am stuck to rot in London trying to survive against every single thing and one. Time is long, work is scarce -- ergo money is scarce as well -- but when work does come it is miserably torturous, where in the aftermath of a single shift deprives you of all the joys in your system. It is all fried and fucked up. Like the people and colleagues around me....

Still cannot catch a break; exhausting. I found myself doing good and honest work with a company for a week now. My rookie day was long and I found myself thrown at the thick of things. Fast forward to today, I find myself joyful at the thought of maintaining this tedious job, if only for the flexibility it brings. However, my life is a cruel mistress, staved off by attacks coming from all directions. This too shall not last. It is nigh impossible to obtain documents I have not seemingly earned, for something unnecessarily kept. It seems things never do commit to a fair play.

Roxi

There is nothing more that can ruin a man's night than a missed kiss. A kiss so close you lean for it and then her head just moves away like an infant who wanted nothing to do with food. It plagued my night and day and the following night and day again. I am clearly not meant for this task. For what it is worth, it is high time for me to ruin my life further and detach and dissociate myself from the rest of the outside world for the third time, further destroying my faith and sanity on my own self and the entire humanity. Regardless of what has been said, I do not condone this and I have yet to feel a dysfunction creep right through me.

Roxana found herself outside my doorsteps unexpectedly. I did not even have the time to react. It was the shittiest time she could shown herself there, and now I reap what I have sown. Of course, I wish it was under better circumstances that we found ourselves swimming over. When I opened the door, she had a fag in her gabber and I just stood there lifeless and gutted, feigning for a hug. Was I the one that influenced her the error of my ways? She had always appeared tired whenever she graced herself in presence. Her face was slightly red, swollen by fatigue, the pores on her cheeks form tiny craters side by side. Her golden hair, ruined by the wind and rain's wicked howl, was missing a slight tint. She had centaur thighs after walking all day, and she had not a single penny for god knows why or how. But there I stood across her body that reeked of toxic air, seducing this woman with my lacklustre charm. It was a shitshow, that one, clearly, but we were making the most out...

Much has been done but very little in fact Such is the state of the man whose heart remains intact When it should have leapt the risk of being broken When the night was whiskful and both of us downtrodden I was a foolish man to think that it was fine In fact it hurt a lot It was such a selfish act Please give me one more chance

I think it was the colour of her melon-shaped face that turned me completely off. She was so photogenic though. When she -- a stranger to me back then -- had asked me whether or not she could stay at my place for a few days or so, who was I to say no? She had captivated me fully with a photograph, and all I could do was to submit my faith fully. Just this one time , I remember whispering to myself. And then never again . But I was obviously lying to myself. There was another thing already lined up even before this transaction with a stranger was finalised. There she was, standing in a corner, waiting for me. The first thing that I had noticed was her hair. It was unkempt, sort of untidy, very unlike the one in her photograph. Did she deceive me? was my initial reaction. When I had glanced at her face for the first time, she seemed totally different than was expected and yet somehow still uncannily familiar. She looked exactly like the woman that I had shared intimate time...

Little did she know that the moment she walked into the door she had submitted herself at the mercy of his manipulative ways. What remained of her freedom was outed as a mere illusion and her future rests in his inability to organise his own. She was as helpless as tofu is alternative to pork. She could not have foreseen the error of her ways so soon. Well, she learned now and learned she did. Whenever he used her body as if it was a tool of possession used only to be discarded again and again, she would always turn a blind eye. She had convinced herself that her soul was loosely detached from the physical aspect of her being, and that whatever cruelty and violence he inflicted upon her sexuality would only be but a scratch to the core of her humanity. He was not a thoroughly deplorable person, and she at times found herself at the other end of a blissful climax as well as falling into the disappointment of not being able to fully satisfy their own. The mechanics of the body i...

Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before It is always so fucking exhausting when the body anticipates waking up before the alarm is able to. Feels as if your entire physical will crumble on you at any time during the day without a moment's hesitation. Clearly I have had no rest. But that's hardly the truth. I do in reality had enough of rest. The problem is when the time of rest doesn't even abide by any schedule and you wake up late at night not knowing what to do afterwards. My schedule was to head to Brighton. After all these fuckingly retarded years. Iceland instigated all of this, and I am yet in the same bind; cash was scarce and nobody was there to lift me back up to save me from myself. It is a sad state of affairs indeed; now I comtemplate whether the plan to visit Sabrina in Wien was a good idea. There is nothing here for me in London but an unlimited supply of restarts, after all. I had arrived in Euston with enough time to roam abou...

What a day! What a lovely day! Some days you develop a nagging intuition that a particular day was destined to be epic, storied, and one to treasure to heart only to end up being just the total opposite. Saturday was one of these days. A couple of days prior to this monumental disappointment, I had inquired of Iceland's condition through Facebook after he disappeared without a trace on our last night out to Shoreditch. He responded with, " I was running for half an hour totalky [sic] drunk ." He was trying to catch the last train to Watford. To tell the truth, he was quite the troublesome sod that night. All the women in our group were bothered by his unkindly behaviour; Eva, Monica, Bruna, Erica, Susana, and another Brazilian whose name escapes me (probably rhymes with Ferefa or Fafala or Falala, whatever other common Portuguese-sounding name derivative it was), were somewhat livid. Me and Eva happen to be wiggl...

She had some sort of wicked mystery to her; the kind that suffocates a man with temptation and desire. One that I wanted no part of, and yet here I stand ranting about her effects on my character, as if a mouse allured by the music of a pied piper. Fitting that the aforementioned woman here is from Vienna, where music plays a vital role in its culture. Where symphonies and orchestras, balls and whatnot, intertwine to form a cavalcade of passion, decadence, and other posh leanings. Suffice to say I am intrigued by the prospect of a short visit in her motherland, if also only to see Sabrina in all her glory. It had been such a long time since we last shared the same air and space, and eager to create new crooked smiles and tragic mishaps. However, this woman in question is not Sabrina. She is of a different flavour and context; she is fire when Sabrina is ice; she is work when Sabrina is play; she is ambition when Sabrina is happiness. One whos...

Once there came a man of youth who fought for life as if he fought for love; He had no spouse nor child nor pet; only a pen which he grips on to like a moth to a flame. His weapon completes him; it complements his strength as a vagabond. No other tool is more useful than when he seeks the right word, for the right time, and for the right moment. Everything else in the world they stutter but words Words carry a man steadfastly in time Words give value to a man's present in someone else's present in time.

There are lots of things to like about a good night out when you happen to wake up the following afternoon dishevelled and nauseous, ready for another go, and aching to jump back into the fray of that missed opportunity. I played with some woman's heart. In the end, she played mine. She always wins. No matter who this "she" happens to be at any given moment. If you ask me whether or not I do regret these, well, to be honest, sometimes, yes. I never get things right the first time. Repetition is something that is etched into my core that whenever I fail to get the chance to do something all over again, I lose all momentum. That was what happened to Mioseon, and everything else good that happened before or after that. My profession, if you even call it that, has the same conundrum, and now it's buried amongst the long-forgottens. Before Friday night, Angelo asked me to tell Eva to come join his party. She immediately responded, and it was a foolish thing for me to ...

The smell of food attracts the prey. I fell for it, it seems. There was no miracle in my life but the sound of her voice. Hoarse, but oddly comforting. Ugly. Rather enchanting, however, was the habit of having to listen to it every day. The first wind of her morning breath permeating in bed. As foul a smell as turd can be. But I had no cause to complain. Morning sex. She responds, never resists. It was anticlimactic, and how can one reach climax in something like that? Underwhelming, sure. Nauseating, yes. Definitely aversive. But... doesn't it always ,  always , always  seem to go that you never know what you have until it's gone?

Was I ever wrong? About things. Things that influenced me, big or small. Boy, was I ever wrong about things. But I could never tell where it was that I was wrong. About things. Only that I was wrong, and now that I admit that I was wrong I still will be wrong. Over and over. Again and again. And pretend I never was. Even if I am. Because I just know now that I am and will always be wrong. Even if.

Thus began a new chapter in my book of life. Armed with jazz, I move on towards new endeavours. Officially I am now alone. As if I was ever in the company of someone else's. It's hard to assume the best when the worst keep imposing itself upon me. Independence, what do I make of it? I could run off now to who-knows-who and god-knows-where. At least I have some semblance of sanity knowing I can express my thoughts now, if this is what would pass as. I try to be decent. I try to blend in, to actually flow along the tide now. Tomorrow I have a guest at home, and it's been years since the last. Feels like forever. It is forever. The past year or two, a blur. A blur of literal nothingness, no jest, of my own doing. Rebellion of a heart that will forever feel slighted. No voice of reason. No one to calm my wits to tell me all is right. Every single thing is a sham, and now I swim with the shammery and yada-yada. Let's taste the shit that shit will endure. Father,...