#god. i need a cigarette or whiskey or perhaps some xanax | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ziggykazenzakis · 7 years

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i heard medium is a dyieng website so imma drop here all i had there just to have it somewhere

Schedule

12:02 — Get up slowly, smoke the first cigarette. Find out you’re out of toothpaste.

12:10 — Watch the new episode of Men Are Important, a show about the world where Men Are Important.

12:32 — Fall asleep in the middle of Men Are Important.

13:11 — Wake up nervously, smoke the second cigarette. Eat something.

13:17 — Download a collection of short stories by someone incredibly obscure, some comic books, bit of contemporary french cinema. Never open downloads.

14:00 — Go to the store to get groceries and toothpaste, come back with cigarettes, white wine and frozen pizza.

14:23 — Write post for Community Buzzfeed, titled “28 reasons my God is better than yours”.

16:00 — Go outside.

17:00 — Point fingers at journalism majors.

19:27 — Tell strangers at a bar how comic books and radio are close as mediums.

20:52 — Get hit in the face.

22:12 — Come home, write an essay on cultural significance of 400 Blows (never watch 400 Blows). Smoke fourteenth cigarette.

23:49 — Look in the mirror.

00:28 — Read Batman comics, open another pack of cigarettes.

01:02 — Read Batman comics, but ironically.

02:37 — Think of your own grandeur for prolonged periods of time, do absolutely nothing.

03:58 — Find the strangest porno possible.

04:49 — Try to fall asleep, cry silently.

12:02 — Get up slowly, smoke the first cigarette. Find out you’re out of toothpaste.

bad joke from 2014

a man walks into a bar man drinks and drinks as he tries to drown his sorrow in cheap yet over-priced liquor which is probably watered down too he comes to a realization epiphany, perhaps not even that though because he spent the most of his adulthood trying to shrug off that idea deep back into the ether he comes to a realization that whatever he does is meaningless meaningless beyond the point of comprehension he doesn’t care for dead philosophers mind masturbation nor for the idea of time and space being the same intertwined thing all he knows is that his actions have no impact on the world around him none

after that setup you might expect a cheerful twist or an absurd one nihilism is intensely boring you might think, “it’s not about the journey it’s about the destination, honey” well first of all, don’t patronize me secondly, we can still get back to the base of this anecdote some slapstick comedy, maybe? or salvage the entire thing with some pop-cultural references that y’all hate but pretend to love it’s actually quite an art, to be pretentious whilst talking about Batman of all things

man keeps on drinking he looks up at the tiny TV atop the bar it’s a rerun of some sports game is that what they called? sports games? the whole thing is ridiculous and way past my control over it commentator says, “stop wallowing in self-pity” man is confused he looks to his left he looks to his right he looks right at the screen and gulps a shot of whiskey “that is what you’re doing with your life? little cry-baby anyway, back to you Johnson” “the game is quite a race today, folks…” and the voice trails off barkeep already saw the game he doesn’t care it’s not like there was much to care about in the first place man pays the bill leaves a tip not too much, not too little he goes home he’ll try to forget and he’ll inevitably fail

the bar was called “Huge Sweaty Balls” are you happy now that’s the punchline that’s the joke you’ve been waiting for everything is fucking great

Banned Names

Amir left the subway, avoiding stranger’s gaze, awkwardly tapping into it ever so often, apologizing as much as he can for snow-covered ten gallon hat using only his eyes. Through side streets and backstreets, which lead to crooked steps, which lead to a heavy door, which leads to basement. Hit aperture with his hat, bowed a bit, came in. Through hallway, and must shake hands with everyone, came. “Sorry guys, slept through”, Amir said. “What’s with the hat, did Haggard die?”, said Jim. “I’ve decided, that the band is called Astral Cowboys”.

“No”, said Thrasy. “Why?”, said Amir. “Cause that’s some fucking bullshit. I disagree”, said Thrasy. Thrasy was sure that the might one is the right one. Not many people agreed with him on things but less have tried to argue.

“Your will and we would have been called Wacky Eugenics”, said Amir. “I like it”, said Jim, not expecting spited glances from both sides. “And what would that be, in your idea? Delta Witchhouse?”, said Thrasy. “Nah, pretty casual psychedelics”, said Amir. “Why not just post-punk”, said Jim, fully expecting spited glances from both sides.

“Alright”, said Amir, “Astral Cowboys, gimme something better”. “Heinous Crime”, said Thrasy. “Circumstances”, said Jim. “No, Complications”. “Upvotes From The Underground”, said Jim. “If you won’t take it seriously then shut the fuck up”, said Thrasy. “A Kilo Of Potatoes”, said Jim.

“You got some bad ideas, Astral Cowboys”, said Amir. “Where does this preconception comes from, that you got the final word?”, said Thrasy. “Main vocals, lead guitar, lyrics — who else?”, said Amir. “Richards rules the Stones”, said Thrasy.

“Imma smoke”, said Jim, and left. “And one who dares to think that Astral Cowboys is a good title for anything should not write anything let alone songs”, said Thrasy. “It’s a good title! Intentionally kitsch but comfortable, relaxed, some chick shit, in a good way”, said Amir. “Here’s what’s going to happen”, said Thrasy. “Justice will be accomplished. Great, strong people been showered in mud by the weak, time and time again. Because they were allowed to. We’re going to punk. And it won’t be a riot. It will be anger. My holy mission is to continue what the Ramones started, convinced conservatives and a bunch of beautiful, rare bastards. I’m going to hit you, and you are going to hit the ground, and the band shall be called Circumstances. Or whatever the hell, Jim had some good ideas, but not Astral Cowboys, chief”.

Jim looked at the falling snow under the light of the street lamp. As he was lighting up a cigarette, he thought that he should learn to draw. He opened up a two years old text file on his three years old phone which was titled “bandnames.txt” and contained such as “Damn, A Burger? Don’t Mind If I Do”, “The Whatnots”, “No Weekends” and so on. He added “Ciet Vong”, which put up the file at the top of the list, threw the cig into a snowdrift, and walked back.

Jim walked in on a couple of grown children, trying to wrestle somewhat, and to hit, and not to damage all the appliance around. “How about Homoerotic Subtext? For a band name”, said Jim.

The band was standing and smoking. “We wasted three paid hours without touching the instruments”, said Amir. “Next week, same time?”

et in arcadia ego

looked barely dead and the cats started chewing on my thigh. They are sure that I’m dead, that I have no need for it, and that the still warm flesh is much more enjoyable than dry feed. The screens around blink with bright imagery of sin. Pick up the phone, look at the list of recent calls, which consists of the same number. After a click, beeps, before someone could reply, say “large pepperoni”, tell address, say, that I won’t need the change. Full cats fell asleep under the warm screens. After an hour to the dot, knock on the door. A kid paler than me holds a large white box the content of which is covered in sand round-shaped bread. He left without saying anything with his ten percent tip (cause death isn’t a reason to be uncorteous). Someone vaguely familiar comes in, full of energy, greets, tells how someone somewhere robbed a bank and uploaded the video of it on one of those sites. Says that if you take a city map and connect all the banks and their subsidiaries you’ll see a pentagram made of pentagrams which are made of pentagrams. “Dude, the main problem with you-know-who is that he didn’t transform hell into heaven but just sits there being a cog”, he says. After a brief pause, I say “we gotta call some five acquaintances and play some basketball”. “Good thinking, dude, good thinking. If all’s well we gotta smash some ATM afterwards. I don’t know why people don’t do it all the time, those things don’t look that hardy”, he says. We leave, the weather is perfect.

untitled

Sportscaster screams “verbiage” when I’m on a stroll Decribing empty vistas filled with horny patrols My dead self is my best self mind not in Malcolm’s way Beware of feedback loops every step of the way Give me a reason to leave my poorly assembled set To this very day les tricoteuses make content

Well you have ears and you have eyes Don’t listen to me look at some other guy There’s some courage to be had Writing down history of victorious empty heads It must be side effect of broken sleep patterns Finding rhythm and beauty in fecal matter

Stinging bland colors exorting a laugh Soundbites of worst to offer, what a fun life I’m asking others how to feel Plateauted yet again it’s no big deal When there’s light again over parks and backdoors I’ll try to mute proclivities towards bromide and havenots

My Dear Friends

The only thing here separating a lion and a man is a lousy moat. Jack Drowsey stands alone in Miami Zoo and stares at the animal. The sun is high on this weekday, Jack ignores a text from his boss, the lion looks back at Jack serenely, Jack puts phone on silent when boss calls, the lion yawns and stretches, Jacks turns the phone off when his wife calls. Jack leaves the zoo and gets in a car for which he has a key. Turns the ignition on, rips off BMW Dealership sticker off the glass and drives. He spent four years in Florida and never seen an alligator, but plenty of idiots. When Castro died, he saw a miami cuban and a skinhead hug. He drives among palm trees and potholes and thinks of his childhood in rural California. He had two friends, Barney and Billy. Barney now lives in San Francisco doing “some gay bullshit”, as Jack calls it. Billy died a few years back, OD’d on Xanax. It gets dark as he crosses the state line. Back in Bakersfield, Jack, Barney and Billy had a game. There was this guy everyone called just Dirty who had a real oxy problem. He was about twenty, but no one knew for sure, while Jack and the gang were all thirteen at the time. The goal of the game was as follows: get Dirty in a cage. They had a cage. The game was usually lost, except for that one time, when Billy told Dirty that if he stayed in the cage for an hour, they’d give him twelve dollars. Dirty walked into the cage, the boys locked it and left. From then on, Dirty was the wiser. Jack has been driving for three days straight now. Once, Barney had a Problem, he wanted to enlist. This curly pudgy kid, the kind who listens to Talking Heads, seventeen at the time, decided he had enough. He shaved his head, started running in the morning, talking about some evils from abroad gathering upon our doorstep, with nothing but vile intentions under their brown skins. Jack didn’t really care, he was happy for his friend to lose some weight and get a better chance at getting laid, but Billy was fuming. For three weeks there were constant arguing, until the two stopped talking and shaking hands altogether. Two months later, Jack’s birthday, which he saw as an opportunity to reconcile his buddies. They spent most of the night at the opposite ends of the room until they were drunk enough to get into some altercations. The previously routine arguing quickly turned when Billy yelled “Bash the fash!”. He must’ve forgotten that previously an artsy cunt spent time working on his body, while Billy was smoking weed and telling young women that they should all look more like Suicide Girls. Barney broke Billy’s nose, who was then smiling and coughing blood laying on the ground. Barney cried a bit. Everything returned to normal. Jack is approaching LA. He hadn’t slept, he hadn’t eaten, he stopped at a gas station once and got a bottle of water. He shuts his eyes for a second at an intersection and a truck is swift and merciless. Now he’s in LA, of sorts. It’s snowing. Dirty approaches him, but he’s clean, and he’s dressed up as Elvis. “Hi, Jack, remember me?”, says clean Dirty. “It’s me, Bruce”, he says. “You’re dead, buddy. Billy is here too, you wanna meet him? Or maybe someone famous first, how does a date with Rita Hayworth sounds to ya, huh, old pal?”, says Dirty. Jack keeps walking, Dirty follows. There’s no sunshine, only snow. There are no cars and Dirty is the only person around. Where would be banners and posters and billboards that advertise a multibillion industry of boredom is nothing; all of them show nothing. “Where are you going, you little shit?”, says Dirty, and Jack finds himself to be thirteen. He keeps walking. “You think I don’t remember? Here it’s hard to forget. All you do is remember”, says Dirty to the kid. “Where the fuck did you even find a cage?”, says Dirty, stops walking, mumbles something, pulls out a cigarette. Jack stops walking too. “We were just kids”, Jack says. “Whatever, asshole. I don’t care. There isn’t some lesson to be had here. Just go”, Dirty says, puffing on a newport. Jack is adult again, and he keeps walking. Until he sees Billy, whose skin is whiter than the snow around. “Why did you leave them?”, he says. Jack punches Billy in the shoulder. “Why did you leave us?”, he says. Billy can’t handle the punch and falls on his ass. “You and Barney seemed to have it figured out, somewhat. He with his art, you with your wife and a job. Not a great job, but a real job, doing something, being able to afford shit and all. I had absolutely nothing. I had no one. I did not leave you two, you did that before. I had bills, I had no fun, I had an easy way out. I took it. What’s your excuse?”, says Billy. And Jack has none.

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