Fictional Norman and his barf bucket of complaints-
The complete nightmare of an alarm clock blasting away just as your rem sleep is kicking is can be a frustrating experience. I usually wake up and vomit bile for 10 minutes then walk around trying to figure out what had happened the night before. And why I’m only on a few hours of sleep. And who smoked all my cigs. i have to bum rides off people to get to work since I wrecked my truck one wasted morning, smashing into a parked truck towing a trailer as I drove 45 mph wasted on ambiens, darvocets, xanax, and a fifth of whiskey. My girlfriend said I had left a message that I was coming over to murder her, I have no recollection of saying. The other guy left the scene of the accident, but I couldn’t, cause my entire front end of the truck was smashed apart with two twisted mangled tires. My cats that use to love each other only want to kill each other now whenever they see each other. Getting the other ones balls chopped didn’t seem to fix the problem, so they must be separated all day when im at work or home, or intense evil death fights happen under the bed with fur flying, and noises like baby monkeys being eaten alive- The one true love of my life left to go back to Florida. She hated this town, can’t blame her. She had a major drinking problem, emotional problems, and mental health issues.. As do I, among other substance abuse issues. I hope the beach calms her soul. She likes to get violent and attack me physically at times after drunken arguments. I owe every bill possible, and they are all late. I make about 5 dollars an hour at some shit job once taxes are taken out. My credit is ruined for life from past hospital bills after my head exploded. I didn’t have health insurance. I got lawyers after me, credit agencies, cops, drug dealers…. I also probably have two warrants out for my arrest. I open my front door to see a truck I had for 12 years completely smashed apart. My lawn looks like the worst one on the street, cause I know longer have a car to drive and borrow a lawn mower. My boss berated me as soon as I walked into work today about all sorts of shit I supposedly wasn’t doing correctly. When i tried to defend myself or even point things out from a different point of view, he said I was being defensive and not listening, so he took me in his office and gave me this huge lecture. I just sat, stared him right in the eyes, and agreed with everything he said, because that’s all they want you to do. It’s alot to put up with for 5 dollars an hour after working there for 3 years. Don’t stick up for your rights, it doesn’t work. My prized attic fan finally broke one hot Texas day, and the landlord said it was too old to fix. I can’t afford an air conditioner unit, so most nights I just toss and turn and sweat and wonder how the fuck it could be so hot in Texas. Strange people knock on my bedroom windows at odd hours mumbling things about something or other. I yell in my loudest voice for them to fuk off, that I’m sleeping. Someone was throwing beer cans or apples up on my roof one morning at 433 am. I didn’t bother to go outside and see what was going on. One night before my girlfriend left for Florida, someone was poking a flashlight through an open window, trying to take the screen off at 4 am. I had to grab my hammer and turn all the lights on, and run out front in my boxers, yelling like a mad man. I didn’t see anybody. I have some sort of broken rib I think, or possible sternum crack from my car wreck. It kills to breathe in deep. One day I was pushing on the area where it hurt, and it sounded like when you crack a piece of chicken cartilage or bone. My dad said he wants his cell phone back that was under his name, cause I couldn’t get one with my bad credit. My first bill was supposed to be 40 bucks a month, but turned out to be 189 dollars. I don’t get it. but he has pretty much disowned me, even though I gave him the money for it. My knuckles are still sore and bloody from the last time I punched my metal front door in after another drunken fight with the girl who left for Florida. I went to the bar a few nights ago drunk by myself and tried picking up on every girl I met, till some huge asshole with muscles bulging out of his forehead veins came up to me and knocked one of my front teeth out.
I don’t have dental insurance. One of my only good friends, who was also a source of transportation, got pulled over the other day for doing something crazy, and had warrants out and is now in jail for who knows how long. Some crack head or someone used my bathroom one day when I was drunk and stole my electric beard trimmer that I had dreamt about owning for years. They also stole a 50-dollar wrench that wasn’t even mine.
I think I had bought it at walmart for 80 bucks. The stupid thief didn’t even take the recharger for it. everyone at work got a raise but me. I don’t even want to ask why. I got a third warrant in the mail today along with a notice they will be turning off all my electricity. I have white hairs popping from my chin because my electric beard trimmer was stolen. My teeth hurt on each side when I chew anything tough because they are cavity infested I think. The neighbors think I’m crazy because I have long and loud yelling matches with myself at 333 am. Wanna be 50-cent type rap guy drug dealers want me to pay them a bunch of money I don’t have. They have threatened to kill me. I told them to go ahead and do me the favor. I check my emails everyday and all there ever is is spam mail. My receding hairline keeps going further and further back on my scalp. I tried to dye my hair bleach blonde white, but it just looks like some odd trailer trash yellow with my pubic haired black goatee with white hairs. I lost my only house key the other day and had to smash in a back window. Then I just got a bunch of binder paper and duct taped it shut, but one of the cat’s keeps chewing threw the paper trying to escape. The police came into my work while I was on break looking for me. My printer is broken. I have no money in my wallet. There is some sort of out of control zit growing on my face that is swelling the entire left side of my face up. All my clothes are dirty and I applied for a second job washing dishes at some Japanese restaurant with in walking distance, but didn’t get hired. I left a candle burning on the top of my TV the other night, and when I woke up all the wax had melted inside of my half broken VCR. My cd player doesn’t work anymore. Two strings on my guitar are broken. One of my neighbors thinks my name is Patrick for some reason and I don’t really care enough to tell him what my real name is. I keep forgetting what month and year it is and what time I am supposed to be at work. I burnt the rice and my microwave suddenly stopped working. Ants keep coming out of the drain hole of my shower. And for some reason the hot water no longer works. A young black boy who rides his bike around my driveway all day long wants to murder me I think. I went out to get my mail the other day and said hello to him. He sat on his bike and gave me this death stare. One of the meanest looks anyone has ever given me and I don’t get why. Next time I’m going to tell him to get the hell off my property. I’m a light sleeper. Somewhat of an insomniac. My kitchen faucet has this constant drip that echoes into my head like an electric dentist drill all night long when im trying to rest. The used fridge I bought is broken again and the warranty ran out. I got food poisoning from some taco cabana the other day and couldn’t go to work. Everyone at work just thought I was lying and that I was hung over. I’ve been digging holes in my backyard at 333 am every night with a borrowed shovel from the neighbor who thinks my name is Patrick.
I don’t even feel the need to masturbate anymore. It’s my day off of work and I cant find a ride to the liquor store, so I’m going to walk 15 miles to buy some whiskey with all the pennies and nickels I found inside my couch cushions and broken truck. I can hear rats breeding up in my attic. Maybe they chewed through some wire and broke the attic fan.
I’m also pretty sure someone was in my backyard at midnight last night snapping pictures of me, or the inside of my house or something. I think I know a guy on the fbi’s most wanted list who slept on my couch one night and drank all my vodka. I’m out of toilet paper and don’t really feel like ruining another t-shirt to wipe my asshole. There’s nothing on cable, and it’s getting turned off tomorrow I think, which means I wont have computer Internet anymore as well. For some reason I have lost all feeling in my index finger. It just felt like it was asleep at first, like pins and needles, but now it just has no feeling. The last time I painted a picture, my cat walked all over it and tracked paint all over my wooden floor with his paws. I missed garbage day again this week so I have just been wrapping it all up in half broken bags I found and tossing them in this junk pile next to the fire pit I dug in my back yard, along with the other holes I’m digging. My watch stopped the other day and I thought it was 3 am for about 4 hours, until I realized the sun was coming up. Someone threw a brick inside my bedroom window the other day when I was taking a nap and it clonked me on my sore head. Luckily the pillow broke some of the impact, so the bleeding bloody welt now forming on my forehead just sort of goes along with the out of control zit thing that’s swelling up my face. It goes along nice with my missing tooth and fat lip and black eye. All and all a lot of other not so good things have happened. But I’m getting tired of talking about this crap, the violins only play for one’s self anyway. We all got problems. The entire human race has to put up with shit everyday, and if this luck changes, that would be great, if it don’t, I wont be surprised. Life is life and things aren’t so bad. I just wish the bullets I bought would have been the correct size. here I am again on my so-called deathbed. Smoking shit till my heart almost stops, popping pills till I sleep, stumbling round in this self-destruction, hoping to live, to die, still here. Eating 10 xanax, 6 vicodins, 3 ambiens, drinking hard booze all day. Uppers all night.. downers. I would like to say I have a reason for this. I would actually like to wake up tomorrow. Everyone tells you to just stop. Those people have never had these addictions, mental problems, whatever is wrong with me. maybe nothing, maybe im just fine. Is insanity hearing things all the time outside that are not really there? Or is it scary convicts in your living room peeking out windows paranoid out of their minds. Maybe insanity is spending every last cent on an addiction you hate. Maybe this is all just sanity. You know, most people may read this and think- goodness, just die. But just to be a tad more manic each day I awake I try and think things will get better. Life is so gigantic, it’s like a learning process everyday. I wish no one knew where I lived, no one had my cell phone number, no one knew about my habits. My name. No one knows my real name. After all maybe I make all this shit up. This is a fiction story anyway. So what if Norman likes to hang out with convicts, drug dealers, mental patients, drunks, thieves, scammers, hustlers, junkies, druggies, mexis, blacks, white trash. I tried getting help before from professionals. The shrink told me I was out of his league. I never went back and didn’t care for the zyprexa. I hope my writing this makes whoever reads it feel uncomfortable, just as it does me writing it. But what else can I write about? The sunsets? The flowers blooming? The happy people who surround me everyday at work with lives and wives and kids? I guess I could. I could write about anything I want. I don’t even care anymore at this point what society thinks of me. never really did. or so-called literary people with egos the size of john holmes aids infested cocks. Maybe someday I’ll get my shit together and be some happy father with a decent paying job, and a woman who loves me. but right now people I owe money to are pounding on my door at 3am. we build are own situations, it’s escaping them alive that matters, and escaping them with wisdom.
I do believe in some sort of higher being. I wont get into my religious beliefs. But with all the shit I have done I should be in prison for the rest of my life or dead. That’s where most of my old friends ended up. This string of bad luck I been having could always be worse. Example- when I smashed my truck at 7 am I should have gone to jail. Wasted out of my mind on every pill possible, fifth of beam. Maybe cops do have souls. Of course I make all this shit up cause im a fiction writer. None of this is true. My real name is Hubert and I’m a very happy man, drug free, church go er, wife, good job. Have you ever felt your heart stop just at the point of sleep from too much heroin? You push that chore till 10 am wishing you had a loaded gun. I don’t care to talk much anymore. You know silence and being within yourself and not sharing any of your feelings with anyone is sometimes the best solution until you can work things out in your own mind. This isn’t even fiction, it has no plot, has no real characters, has no theme, has no middle or end.
It just feels good to get it out. And I don’t care if it leaves you with an empty feeling in your gut. Or you tell me what a terrible writer I am. Least Norman is honest. Real writers, or so called published writers, who make money off their silly stories and plotted fiction bore the fuck out of me, not all of them, but I work in a bookstore, and each novel I pick up everyday seems to be dishonest Brainwashed college writers with degrees who teach writing yet are so concerned with the so called rules of writing. Its all gone to college bla bla bla crap.Of course if I ever picked up this bullshit I write in my bookstore I’d probably put it down because there are no sunsets or flowers or love or interesting characters. All the beer is gone at 333 am. I’m an asshole. I’m Norman and this is all fiction. I’m really a happy person. Is that a car at 4 am? what’s the point. No money, sick feeling. What’s one more hit, to be in debt. Oh Jesus Christ, freaks wigglin out peeking out window blinds non stop at 5 am. My life at the moment makes William Burrough's ‘junky’ novel read like a Disney book. Dammit, I hate this, addiction sucks. I never want to glorify it, but it’s all I know, so I write about it. Carpet searchers. Just real strange people that never say a word for 4 hours, gigantic scary eyeballs, but me smelling their paranoia makes me wonder who the fuck they are, and why they are in my house. Have they killed people? What’s with all them skuzzy tattoos and gang type ink settings creeping up their arms? I think in a way I’m trying to kill myself. but refuse to put a gun to my head, or jump off a building, or hang myself from the oak tree in my backyard. I have thought of so many different ways of killing myself, but I’d rather just live, or tempt death. Shit, it’s been 32 years, and I’m still here. A lot of people don’t get my ways or me. I don’t either. I guess I’m a whiney little bitch who has consumed enough drugs tonight alone to kill most humans. Tolerance grows and grows. Push the limits to maximum points of insomniac brokenness. I still don’t claim to be crazy, or say that my life style is cool, cause it aint. But the people who tell me to change, or say just stop, have no idea about the creeps of temptation. You can move to any state, any town, but those people find you, or you find them. I stare out of my room for a second and see a Mexican man who has been here for 4 hours and said maybe 2 sentences, he just peeks out the window, non stop, the other fellows sit sad faced on couches with no beer left, thinking every piece of white crumb on the floor is that one last hit, just one last hit. I’m so glad this is fiction. Because no one would ever want to live like this.
Norman no longer needs to write silly poems about his depressing life, because all most people want to read about is happiness, or trippy hippy stanza re writes, And Norman can only write what he lives, sees, feels, weather it’s sad or sometimes dark humor. It’s just gotten to the point where the humor is a distant story written years ago when life didn’t seem so fucking hopeless. I don’t even like most writers I have met, most of them are assholes, concerned about spelling and punctuation.. and all the so-called rules of writing.. on some ego trip thinking they are the only ones who can truly write. I admit im an asshole and maybe the worst writer to ever live. but if anyone has ever showed me any sort of encouragement or just attempted to be my friend, they know I aint such a bad guy, we all have are moments of luck, some bad, some good.. right now I need silence, I have spoken and written too much in the past and said and done to many stupid things. And one cant be taught how to write, it has to come from the soul. I get so sick of putting books away at work. New novels. I read about the authors. They are all the same. Graduated with a masters in creative writing, teaches at some college, lives in new York, has a wife and two kids. I just don’t get it. don’t even want to. I can’t even spell. What the fuck am I even bitching about? I’m sure there are tons of new novels out there I put on shelves everyday that may be worth reading. See? I flip flop on everything I say when I start noticing I’m judging others. I just wish there were more novels being published with some balls, some guts, something that makes one feel something. The first time I read ‘Hunger ‘ by knut hamsun.
Written in 1890, it. changed my life. no it didn’t. but I do find gems occasionally. Books you cant put down because they just rule. I like finding novels at work that I cant put down. But im afraid in this day and age there aren’t many I’d like to read. Books that inspire one so much that I hold onto my pipe dream novel I hope to write if I don’t end up dead first. I find books at work that I know I would love to read, I have shelves and shelves of books. But never enough time. work work work, pay bills, self-destruct, sleep.
I’m exhausted. I forget who it was, maybe some Russian writer, Kafka, dostevsky, someone who said on his death bed… “ I want everything I have ever written destroyed when I die.” I really thought that was great, cause it aint about fame, or money, or recognition. It’s more about releasing these thoughts, then later, when sober, or in a different state of mind, wondering who the hell wrote that. Cause half the time it aint me doing this. It’s the addict in me. I want to wake up in a new body, a new mind, a positive outlook on life. I once joined an all black church. It was another attempt to try and change my ways. They spoke in tongues. They preached the gospel. I got addicted. Got saved. All my friends thought I was nuts. But I did feel something other then depression. It lasted about 3 weeks. No drugs, no drinking… Till I realized the church people were all crazier then any of my druggie friends. Telling me to burn all my rock n roll cds, burn all my books, don’t ever hang out with my drug friends again…. One must find peace on one’s own, sure, try anything, anything to save yourself. But never ever lose your mind and let anybody brainwash you into thinking it’s all evil, or all good. Cause life is a mystery that we all try and cope with in anyway possible. I’m getting way to preachy. I tend to do that after an eating 9 xanax, drinking 25 keystone lights, vicodins.. and other such things. In a few hours I’m going to take a nap maybe, maybe I’ll wake up alive, maybe not. But if I do, I have to borrow my neighbors lawnmower, cause my lawn is the worst on the street. I’m just gonna write fiction from now on. Cause as I said, fiction doesn’t have to be truth, that’s why its called fiction, its up to the reader to decide what is true and what aint. No more poetry for me. I’ll write it still, but only for myself. It’s way to personal and I don’t really care to have a diary of my life posted on the internet that no one reads anyway. I really wish these fuckers would leave my house already so I could go to bed without having to worry about being killed or raped or stabbed, that one dude is still peeking out the windows, and I just heard the fist bird chirp. You see this is all fiction I have just written. And there was no plot, no characters, no beginning, middle, or end. Time to kick these fuckers out of my house and try and get back to my silence.
