07 November 2018

Well for GOD’S SAKE I superglued my fucking stomach back together yesterday. The feat was almost as impressive as the disaster that lead to it needing repairing in the first place. I’m serious as a heart attack, man. The human body splits open like a beached whale when you least expect it, and all you gotta do is squeeze the wound shut (providing it has smooth edges), and squirt a little glue over top of it and, hey presto, you got yourself a homemade suture. Coupled with a saline solution to sterilize the wound, the whole procedure took about two minutes and cost me a whole five US dollars. As far as me developing a severe gangrene infection that kills me dead in my sleep: it’s still a “wait and see” sort of thing.

The only good news I have to report is that I was able to get my old midnight gig back at the Wolfhound, so I’ll be working the door at least one night a week. That’s what they told me anyway, but god knows they say a lot of things. I am ON-CALL the rest of the week, and I have told my doormen-brothers that I can be outside on that stool with a book in my hand checking IDs until 1:45 a.m. with even an hour’s notice. What the hell else am I going to do with myself? Hide under my comforter and cry? That act is getting old! I’m done with it. (Or is it done with me . . . ?)

It went like this: I went to work, and several people asked me if I was sick. I looked really bad, you see. I still look bad. I haven’t shaved in five days, which I almost never do (because of how bad it looks), and my hair is especially greasy and my skin is especially pale, which makes the black stubble growing out of my face look all the more horrifying. I have something of a black eye and medical tape hanging out of my T-shirt, which depicts album art from a band you like when you’re 15 years old. That’s not too far off par for me, but it’s enough of an amplification of my overall grubbiness that people felt concerned enough to say something about it. Man, if only they knew!

Well: So I was driving real fast down San Pablo to get home to glue my flesh together, god help me, and I saw this tall-ass Frenchman behind the bar at Wolfhound. I mean I was driving by and the door was open and I saw this poor bastard in there! I had been looking for him for some time, since he runs the place, and I’m broke as hell and need something to do at night, so I figured I’d run it by the big man to see if I could get some shifts to change my fortune a little bit . . . or at least not have to pay for my drinks at all anymore! So I swung the car around hard and parked right out front. I went inside and approached this man.

He was all about it. He still had my number in his phone and everything. I love this guy, I really do. He’s beautiful. I’m back on the roster. The other doormen, my brothers, they know me, and so they seem excited to be able to take a night off or whatever, now that I’m around to pick up the pieces for them beneath the dim glow of the neon signs!

I wonder at night still: Who will love me when all the neon is gone?

Anyway: Tonight I have to fortify Kermit the Frog’s coffin with velour or velvet or something. It needs to be beautiful, and it is not yet beautiful enough. Mitch and I are going to take a saw to it, and make it a little smaller, and maybe smoothe it out a bit. It’ll be a real thing when it’s done, which is hopefully by tonight because the damn funeral is on Saturday. I hope this thing isn’t a colossal failure. Apparently a lot of people are coming. The person I want to come the most isn’t. Whoops!

I’m out of good news. I just had the one thing. Now I need to turn my phone off and finish preparing for a puppet frog’s funeral . . . said the full-grown man with the superglued stomach!!!!

What I wouldn’t give for some god damn relief! To be held! To be talked to!

Well . . . seeya!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!