Mate, your off your tits.

Sandy Bay

Tonight I got injections. All kinds of injections. I took an oral vaccination for cholera mixed with bicarbonate soda. I had a hepatitis A and B shot along with a thiphoid jump and a tetnus to top it off. Then I saw a woman in a pretty pink top with fantastically big breasts about my shortness of breath. I blew in many different devices, even got to take one home. She said I was fine. Checked my mri’s, xrays, bloodtests, urine samples and chest scans. Nothing wrong anywhere. Could be an athlete she reckons. I say the only time I feel short of breath after exercise is when im dancing like Elvis. She laughs. We talk about my drinking and she gets a little worried. Says it could be a problem.

I tell her I'm a writer and she laughs again. I say I can't stop drinking because I only write about getting drunk. She says then the people who read my stuff must all be alchoholics anyways. Says I'm supporting an unnoble cause. Her beautiful, hulking pink tits inside her top. No cleavage. Small dry hands. A big, twisted, doctor like face.

She says to find help. To go home and find help. I go home.

At home I watch House of Sand and Fog. After it all. After all the needles. Bandaids over the puncture marks in my skin. I watch the film alone and drink wine. A lot of wine. When it finishes, in the dark by myself, I put my head in my hands and cry. I cry a lot. I cry for a long time. Big sobs. coming from nowhere. I cry like a grieving widow. I cry for a lot of things. I cry for the white of the toilet bowl that shines in the lamp shade. I cry for two people I email a lot. Maybe three. I cry for Israel and the ocean, lions and Mac Books. i Pods and vaginas. English language and Hebrew. I drop a few for England and my overseas sister I never speak to. My cheeks get wet for the photos and the boys weekends away. Surfing and friends that are girls. Centrino, avocado, tattoists, the guys at the pub, locals, landmarks, lovers.

I get blurry for fish fingers, saggy boobs, face lifts and prostate cancer. I watch House of Sand and Fog and I cry for the serious. For the math teachers and the artists. For break ups and hang ups. Jelousy and stories. I spill some for all the people who will read this and laugh and call me a a faggot. I cry for my friends who aren't really friends. For the bad words that will roll around your head. I don’t stop. It keeps going. I saturate myself because I think it matters and it doesn't.

For my little bank account. For the ring I can't afford, for the house deposit I can't get, for the lies I tell and the wine. Always cry for the wine. I vomit in the sink. Some blood. Probably from my teeth. I brush my teeth. One more glass. Hop into bed with her and spoon. Put my feet on hers. She says, “You come in here drunk and touch me up and shit, it fucking pisses me off" and then rolls around like a mad woman. I get back out of bed and pour another. Then I write this and send it off before I sober up and can delete it all.

I cry because there is no god.

No one coming for us.

we are all alone here.

alone with the horror.

the sleaze

the trash

we are all alone

coming off as a wanker . com