It's Tuesday and Tuesday is like any other day except that sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s different in the way that only days full of misadventure and piteous overthrows write like a bunch of shit because everyone’s on drugs but it. I want to fuck, want to love even but don’t know if I even know how anymore. Love is such a bitch sometimes. Why throw everything away to call someone your girlfriend, just so you can feel jealous and break up and hate one another?

                I’ve ditched the room. I’ve ditched the people in it. I’ve come back into my space of Darkhouse, my little space. I’ve come back to la Sanctuaire d’Arco. Everyone in the living room is drinking stupid fine wine given by the homosexual, chewing on pretty cheeses fed them by the folks with money and nothing to lose. Except they’re constantly losing their souls, handing them out for candy and coke and sex and dirt. I feel such an intense anger right now. This is the time I want to get away. I want to get away from them. From it all. I just want to drink and fuck but the girl is on pills with the rest of them and she only wants to hang out and film them making asses of themselves. I’m so not interested. I’m so not a part of this. I brought her the drink she loves the most, bought a bottle of whiskey, for far too much, and came in happy that it wasn’t total Darkhouse, but found a party of misfits in the full swing of ridiculousness. When did she become a part of this? Why is she on all of them? Why am I in my room, depressing myself with these ridiculous words that I know are ridiculous, that I know will do nothing but soften my penis and make me upset?

                I’ve just written three-hundred words about nothing, just so I could get out of the room. Now everyone’s home, and I wish I didn’t have to go back in there. But there is something, someone in there that draws me. I’m in love with her, I do love her truly, but I thought we were outside of all this. I didn’t want someone who would just join in on the drugs and the stupidity and the fruitlessness of every wasted night. What a waste! God, it angers me so much. We’re up to four-hundred now. It’s just volume and stupid laughs in there. It’s just bad television and prescription drugs. I’m drinking too but it’s different. Or maybe I just tell myself that. Maybe I’m just only happy when I’m the center of attention, of her attention. Of her intentions.

                All I’ve thought about all day is that she was sitting at home in her little garage room, painting and sewing, or one or the other, and that I wanted to be sitting with her, silently, working on my novel in the beauty of our silent artistic room. Then there would be love talk, touch, sex, more love talk then morning and work. Maybe even more sex. She’d have an orgasm. I would too. Instead I’m listening to her act like them and it is truly bothering me.

                Five-hundred and forty-four words in, nothing changes. Even the repetitive type and clack and clack and type on keys stuck with cum and food and old coffee says the same thing over and over again. What am I doing? Why am I writing? What am I writing? Is this a waste of time? Yes, it is. I’m typing really quite hard just to get her attention. It’s not working. I have to go back in there to see her. And that’s exactly where I don’t want to be. That room is why I’m leaving the state. That room is why I changed my name back. What a waste, what a terrible waste of time! Both of us. All of us. What is this life? Six-hundred and sixty-eight.

                She might as well be sleeping with them. Right now I am an afterthought. Half of me says that she is giving me my space and respecting that I’m writing, giving me my privacy to do so (even though I’m really not). The other half says that she’s bored, that she’s Michele, that she wants to be doing what I am always not doing when being myself. Yeah, so I’m not that much fun to be around. That’s who I am. That’s what I want. I want to talk about poetry and love and writing and the Cemetery of Forgotten Books and favorite days and good stories and times that are past but always with us. I want to be doing something that even if it could be considered wasting time will somehow eventually better me as a person, as an artist, as a human, maybe even just as a writer. Certainly not a lover. Certainly not a rockstar. Certainly not a party animal. Fuck all this stupid noise. It even makes my English bad, apparently. I’m a series of one-dollar words right now. Eight-hundred and fifty-six of them.

                I’m a James Dean haircut with a bad attitude and soupy shit in his guts, taking a piss and thinking of these words, suddenly realizing that I’m surprisingly depressed for maybe no reason at all. What a night, what a night. This isn’t what Kerouac was writing about. This isn’t even what I want to write about, what I do write about. Like I said, it’s just writing for the sake of making noise with a keyboard and an escape from the room that I thought I had saved myself from. The room that I thought I’d found a partner in leaving. Nine-sixty-four. Almost there.

                Eleven oranges sang a song to the tune of something French they heard once but couldn’t pronounce the name of. They thought about it afterward and decided what they really wanted was to be zucchini. That’s the first time I’ve ever tried to write that word and miraculously I spelled it correctly. One-thousand, one-hundred and nineteen. Why isn’t there a hyphen in the ‘teens?

                Everyone’s on drugs. Everyone but me. I am miserable right now, and my lover is a part of the cause. What a pain. What a night. I’ve had enough of this. One-thousand, one-hundred and sixty-two. Now they’re smoking pot. Of course. And I’m walking back in. For absolutely no reason at all. What a night. One-thousand, one-hundred and eighty-six wasted words for wasted people.

                I’m feeling vicious for no reason at all. And I can’t stay away from the keyboard. This is music, somehow. This is real love. This is the second page. I’m being dramatic. I hate this. I hate this about myself, thought I was past it, thought she was different. I know where to put the commas, Jack. That’s why I use them. And I maybe do it just to not sound like you when I write. Would you have loved the computer and its lack of need for paper exchange?

                I almost went back in but suddenly knew that she was going to ask me why don’t I just stay in there and write? She wants me in here. I’m no party, and she never cums. I’ve got tears from and of smoke in my eyes. Well just one really. And I’ve stopped using my commas. Are commas and comas related? I wish this was a typewriter. That would really get her attention. Did you master typing with a cigarette in one hand, Jack? I suck at it. Am I meditating? Am I communicating with the dead? Are you dead, like Weldon Kees isn’t?

                Why hasn’t she come in here yet? She must have masturbated when I was at work. I want to swallow this whole bottle at once. It cost too much and I want to prove it. There it is, now I’m a party. One-thousand, three-hundred and thirty-one useless words. Useless? Is there such a thing? The –less makes them worth something.

                I’m drunk and I want to light my hands on fire. Is this depression? Is this madness? And I’m ashing on the floor to see if she notices. She won’t.