Drunk Love

Hey people, you see, I am acknowledging that I have an audience, hello audience, am I beautiful? Are you realizing how wonderful I am? I’m drunk and the delusions come on stronger with the sauce. I feel everything more, especially the hollers of my ego. That’s why do this shit right, write, create, fucking everything? Jay Reatard is dead. I am drinking whisky alone and have never been happier, nothing matters, my health, my responsibilities, I am nothing and loving it. Hello vibrant New Yorkers, I am talking to you, because I don’t know if anyone I actually know should read this. With a belly full of poor man’s Jameson, Seagram’s Seven, I am altered, and ebullient with the thought that I am alive, free, able to thrust my personality on all passer-bys, and now you the reader are oh so lucky to read my intoxicated words. Do you love me more now? I bet you could love me, just as easily as I could love you. I want to love you. I want to fuck you. I want to lick the sweat and salt off your skin. I want to feel fusion with another person. Jay Reatard is dead. He died in his sleep, and now I am listening to everything he ever produced. He no longer can love unless there is a heaven where love is perennial, but do we want a love perpetual? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

This heartache is what makes love. Love can’t exist without the possibility of pain. Do I want freedom from pain when I can be so in ecstasy when there’s this being close to me that’s not me? Someone that experiences what it’s like to be me in the only truly fathomable way possible. My ex-girlfriend said I’m a difficult person to get close to, and I wonder how close I am to figuring who the fuck I am. Anyone out there that can clear the clutter in my head? It’s not me, that’s for damn sure, but you know what I’m used to the clutter. Sometimes it spits out something coherent at least to this now muddled mind.

I think I’m only on this earth to experience love. That’s all I want. Nothing more, nothing less. Could you love me? How do you know when you love someone? Is it when you’d die for them? Death, doesn’t hurt when it happens to us, love, hurts when it leaves us, but when in its midst is the most exhilarating sensation, nothing compares, not playing onstage, not succeeding in whatever you’re striving for or to, and I must state an orgasm with a true lover is beyond comprehension, let alone description.

Ultimately, in my mind there’s nothing more to long for, love, nothing pleases, sates, me more, not making money, art, romantic love, that’s all there is and the despondency when it is lacking. That particular pain, I can’t qualify or quantify it, is it good? Bad? Is it a pain I never want to feel? I want you to love me. I want you to love me.