Overcast outside. Undercast inside. I don’t have a single plan for this day. Already shit twice. Why twice? Once was not enough? Once is never enough. Must shit, shit, shit, and then shit again, and again, and again. Must do my part in contributing to the Sea of Shit in which I swim any time I touch these waters of the open Internet, the WWW, the double-you double-you double-you that doubles itself every octillionth of a second. I don’t like writing here, at this desk. I am at home, after a long shower and, to iterate, two significant bowel movements. These were not after-shits. These felt like significant planning went into each of them. I want to go somewhere today. At work a few days ago everyone was talking about stuff I knew plenty about, but I said nothing. I’m not loud enough. There was no argument going on but it felt like people were one-upping each other with their knowledge of, for instance, Staten Island, or Brooklyn cemeteries. No arguments, just competitiveness. Jockeying. In the right acoustical context my voice booms but not in that space. I’m gonna put my socks on now. There. They are on. I can still reach my whole body. That’s a question from some health survey I did a while ago. Are you able to wash your whole body? It’s a City Health Department thing. I’ve been doing these surveys since Covid in exchange for a $10 gift card which I usually use to buy Lindt chocolates. Pretty much any time I shower now I articulate the thought I can still wash my whole body. But for how much longer? Sometimes I think about the dermatologist and how interested she was in my showerhead, with all its different settings. Gentle, brutal, trickle… She had only ever showered standing, like most people (I guess) but I introduced her to sitting in the shower and she said she would probably never go back to the old way. We had very little to talk about and when it ended I felt nothing, but I happily recall our afternoons spent in the shower.
I installed Immich on the DedServ and have been wandering through my morass of accumulated photos and videos. It’s too much. I’m not a physical hoarder but digital hoarding creates its own form of mental constipation. I’m going to have to disable the face-searching feature. I don’t really need every ex highlighted across the landscape of my past. I don’t take pictures of the women I’m with anymore. The Japanese Waif exited my life without a trace. The Stripper did as well, as did the Derm and the angry Cypress Hills woman from the chat line. They all did. No digital trail, no social media check-ins, no evidence for future forensic researchers to sift through. Most recently I took the step of social-media-blocking the woman I was with in 2024, and who has reentered my life again these past few months. I’d suggested we try a fuckbuddy arrangement but she’s changed in the last year or so. Healthy her whole life she now sees a different kind of doctor almost every single day. Exhausted, sexless, but not in the slightest offended at my suggestion. I have no pictures of her but she took plenty of me, always naked in her bed or somewhere in her endless railroad apartment. I take that back, she did send one photo of herself naked but it was taken before we connected and I suspect it was originally intended for someone else.
Lately, because I think about women all the way too much, I’m trying to make sense of the encounters I’ve had with a certain other woman, who I’m not even going to describe because she’s the sort who might seek out this kind of stuff that I do out here in the Sea of Shit. I’ll describe her as rambunctious. That’ll be my word for her. She’s been here 3 times and those were rambunctious encounters. Nobody is supposed to know about us, and so far I don’t think anybody does.
I have put on my shoes and am now fully clothed. At the start of this critical missive it was just underwear and a shirt. Then the socks. Without comment I secured and enveloped aforementioned underpants with pants. Shoes completed the ritual of making myself presentable to public life. while a jacket will complete the coverage of my WHOLE BODY for its exposure to the outer world, the stubborn, persistent reality that lingers outside the Sea of Shit.
I have to go somewhere but where? I crossed 20,000 steps yesterday, walking up to Ditmars then down to the Ed Koch Queensboro to see if the DOT installed trash cans or emergency call box telephones on the pedestrian path. They did not. I N-trained to Herald Square and walked over to Penn Station and into a part of Hudson Yards and a little bit of the High Line. I was feeling very sluggish, and after 2 days of that I start to think it was the new tiny pill recently added to my daily potion of pharmaceuticals. EZETIMIBE. Intended to deal with cholesterol it is the only thing different in my routines these past two days in which I’ve felt uncommonly fatigued, pronounced as in Looney Tunes: FAT-UH-GYOOD. I skipped that pill today and will see if it improves anything. The statins had very bad side-effects on me. I never experienced pharmaceutical-induced CONFUSION until taking one of those statins. Because of that experience I no longer take a new med on a work day, only on a day off. That was a bad experience. Medically-induced confusion of that sort was more, well, confusing than I would have imagined had I attempted to imagine such a condition.
Here is a picture from 2014. This word-concoction gave me dirty thoughts.
