antek's blog: "your mom loves me ;)"

7.32pm - mentally unstable. 10:19pm I have just made an ass out of myself in front of myself. If I had split personallity, one of them would slap the other for thinking that it would all be allright again, that it would all fall back into place. The funny thing is, it's not the women you had that you still think about, it's the ones that got away. Before I had a chance to even settle from the shock I got by hearing her voice again, I am back in the time when everything seemed like it was put together by the nice people at Ikea - perfect. What goes around comes around, except it comes back around with a lot more baggage 'it' picked up on the way, souvenirs so to say, karma's a bitch. If you nibble on it, it makes sure to come back to bite your arm right off, and you deserve it because you initiated contact first, you started the chain of events. The news snowballed on me when I least expected it, when I was just allright. If you find a way for your heart to stop producing feelings of sadness, guilt, fear, stress, while still maintaining a normal 60-100 beats a minute, call me. 5.05am I wanted to fuck the dashboard of my friend's car tonight.

1.36am - What are you suppose to think of yourself when all you hear from people that are suppose to support you most, is avalanche of verbal abuse? When you are being reminded everyday that you're a nobody, going nowhere, even if in other people's eyes you're an ideal friend. Often being compared to people that wasted their life away, the losers who accomplished zero, nill, nada. Working a dead-end job, with no degree, you did this to yourself. You did this, you decided to skip out on the higher education. You have cut yourself off from friends, from family members living less than a football field away, from fresh air alltogether (let's not go as far as saying "fresh" about the air in New York, but you get my drift). Locking yourself away in a paper prison of your own appartment, isolation, seemed logical since you can't afford to have fun without the green. Sleeping pills are a good way to reboot your system, because in reality the difficulty of life can be too hard for some. So cheers my friend, grab some h2o, chase down an army of medicine you just swallowed, kick back and enjoy the show. Enjoy your life's highlights in slow-mo, written, directed and produced by yours truly. All your glory days as a kid, loved by everyone, no pause, no rewind, this is your True Hollywood Story, your Pay-Per-View event, World Premiere. That one time when you split your head open trying to dance in a room full of drunk relatives, the time when your uncle, who you dearly miss, pushed you aside and you landed with the back of your skull molded to a corner of some sharp piece of furniture. The forecast shows clouds of panic with a chance of hysteria showers. Bathtub, a qarter-full of blood, family and siblings all around, trying to tuck your medulla oblongata back in, your dad passing out, oh those were the days. You were the center of attention, smiling at the reflection of you in the maroon tub, happy to know that you're important, cared for by all ('cept your dad, he's on the floor, passed out from seeing half your brain nearly leak out), loved by most. Right now the pills marching through the back of your throat, you can hear them, rattling around like a bunch of garbage being thrown down a disposal. Won't be long before they find you with your shirt off on the floor, next to your laptop computer, finishing up the last sentence you will ever write, cursor still blinking and all. A flashback of a first black eye here, first kiss there, and you start to realise that you're permanent, your life isn't. When your sister was at the age of three or four, you would make her cry by leaving her alone in a dark room, only to come back few minutes later to tears and hugs, fulfilled with a sense of accomplishment, knowing that you're needed, that's how you sucked the love out of people, you evil little shit. Blink, next channel, comedy, the time your ass got stuck in tar on a newly constructed roof, your red sandals are still glued to the top of the building where you used to live, still there as a monument, a statue that you made yourself. Sad that the biggest mark you left for people to remember you by on this waste of a planet are the two, shiny, still glowing traffic-light-red, size 2 baby kicks. Your own hollywood square. The little marching meds are kicking in, this is when - WAKE UP! WAKE THE FUCK UP! You're late for work! it's 8.30am, you said you had to leave at 8am! Get the fuck out of bed. Thanks conscience. My life, it's a sick maze with cheese at every corner.

2.54am - Drama. I'm a simple guy, to me the city has so much useless shit, it's cluttered with 'unnecessity'. Everywhere there's restrictions, it's like we're in jail, might as well be, can't even fart without a warning here or a summons there. In NYC you should automatically be born with a middle initial assigned to you, D, for drama - John Drama Doe. This way when you take a vacation, go out of town and people look at your ID, they say "Well I guess he's had it rough, let's go easy on him, he's from New York City". So the other day, back in february, I was on the train going home, it's about an hour ride home from the city, it's 6am, me, the mildly drunk russian,in a nearly empty train, with a homeless guy sprawled out across three seats at the other end of the subway car, in his dark corner of the car is a busted light. Halfway through at one of the stops I get called over by an officer of the law, this american law that I don't mind following rules of, if only you spill it in a shaker and strain all the bullshit through. I could tell you the details of the unpleasant smell of urine, how this train I was in was covered with graffiti, how I was going home from working a long bartending shift, trying to get home just to shut my eyelids and pass out only to find myself in the morning waking up still wearing my bar clothes next to the refridgerator, wiping crusty eyejuice in confusion, but I'll spare you. The officer asks for my ID, without any further notice writes up a summons, meanwhile my train had already left, which by the way only goes every half hour or so at that time. "See you in court", as if I just violated some strictly enforced code of conduct. My feet were rested on the edge of the seat. "Taking up an additional seat" on this dump called train, with nobody in sight. I didn't kick a grandma in the face and took her seat, it was kind of empty, oh and did I mention the homeless drunk occupying three seats? yeah.. I'm a rebel, I am Osama Bin Laden to the MTA of NYC, I unleashed the weapons of mass destruction, my size 11 chucks, onto the seat. That night was great. 3.42am - nill.

I've done nothing all day. I slept, felt like shit when I was awake, and slept some more. Now that I'm up, I'm just going to grab a bite to eat and then pass out listening to some depressing piece of soothing earcandy. Is it in these moods that we are suppose to produce something artistic? Do you automatically become an artist once you put your thoughts onto a piece of paper or paint them on canvas? I'm at a point in my life where I feel like I have nothing to look forward to, the things I wanted to see or accomplish are just muffled sounds thumping in and out of my head. I feel like a robot on autopilot, going somewhere and doing things that other people would want to see me do. Why does it take a tragedy to produce something beautiful? Can you love life? I wish I was able to appreciate it more. I wish that I could hold on to some of the people I meet.. one person in general. The person that shares the great unknown with you, the person that appreciates your efforts to make things better for the two of you, the same exact person that squeezes toothpaste from the middle and the person that you can be comfortable being yourself around wearing your grandma's panties, if it were to come to that. There is no specific point I'm trying to make here, this is just your typical, run-of-the-mill, tour through the half-closed doors of my thinkbox. Some people never find their Eve, the Eve that their inner Adam once gave a rib for. It's like we are the people, put here on earth to play a game. How it goes is, you, long ago, gave something away to a person to hold onto, that something was a half of your heart (or a rib). What God did (if there is one), is shuffle us all like a deck of cards, and threw us up on the planet we call home. Now we're lost in our own habitat, looking for the person without a face who has the other half of your heart you once gave away to. When you find that person, you win a prize, you win the life-long vacation in paradise, this paradise we will call a healthy relationship with a person that made you complete and vice versa. This prize would be love. 4.26am Why did the bitch had to eat the apple? You know, I believe in reincarnation, I believe that once we're done fucking around here, by that I mean once we've run out of sand in the hourglass, we become germs. As if. On the last time you exhale, you let out your lifelong soul, or a bacteria in this case, that floats around, looking for a vulnerable host to invade. This is when you start over. So people that once left a message, committed a crime, created something beautiful are the same people that later find that message, solve the crime, and the same people keep on creating something beautiful where they left off. We all start off with preloaded talents in our hard-drives. I mentally kill things I love, and then bitch and whine about it, that is my talent. We run around in circle or a pentagon all our lives, trying to connect the dots, leaving cookie crumbs after ourselves so we don't get lost and get back to the place we once started off with. I don't even like writing, but at this point, after a long night of drinking and all day of feeling like a shit at the bottom of your shoe, it's actually pretty therapeutic. 5.02am I want my half back. I want to learn how to play the guitar again, because I once knew, then forgot, I want to write songs about breakups. You know that one song that triggers something when you listen to it, because you think it's poetically well put together, because you can relate to it, because you went through the same shit once too and you just want to give a good, firm handshake to the song's creator and give 'em a nice pat on the back for the deja vu. The same germ-like character that fell from the 'breakup' tree and hit every branch on the way down, wrote that song. I want to be back with my someone, the one that makes me feel whole again. This 'dear diary' babble shit is done. 5.12am ..find me again please. I feel like my head is a balloon being detached from my body, and my mind floating away in search of interesting subjects to think about. What would happen if all that you think about was actually presented to other people on a silver platter, when somebody asks you on your thoughts about their plastic surgery operation and you just happen to laugh a little in your head and proceed to think how their nose looks like an elephant trunk tied in a knot. Picture your thoughts being put into comic-book style bubbles, imagine walking around the city being able to read what people are thinking, turning pages and then reading more. Imagine how overwhelming it would be. Well when you find your half's keeper that's pretty much how it is.. you don't have to worry about them lying to you about where they have been the night before, or whether or not your ass looks fat in those jeans, yes it does and they will let you know that. You can simply read their mind. How surreal would our world be if we could all have mentally constructed appartments in our heads, then invite others to see how you live. We would live in pure bliss. Would it bother you much if the person that you invited to have a look-see at the newly redesigned humble abode in your head starts hogging the blankets or not wiping their feet on the fresh laid 'welcome' mat located somewhere between cerebellum and the brain stem? I have the biggest brainstorm in my head right now, guess I kind of crashed my appartment when I got drunk last night, now the whole place is a mess, hypothalamus is all fucked up, can't sleep in peace anymore, damn cold in here. I want to invent a color and give it a name, a person's name, maybe a gender too.. 5.45am still here, I wonder.. if I had a thick black stripe on my forehead, it would smile.