I tried to leave the home of my Mommy, but I couldn't. Mommy's car, the sweetest Snowflake, worked, but I still couldn't leave the house. So Mommy, sweetheart that she is, didn't say a word against my anxiety and sadness. She doesn't believe in therapy, but she said that a friend gave her a Tickle Me Freud doll and she would let me talk to him. I must say it did NOT work. I hate therapy! It's not how I roll and my happy expression is only stoicism disguised as recovery. I shall progress as I progress. Tonight I watched a documentary on Miles Davis because I love M. Davis -- he said if he had one hour left to live, he would strangle a white man, very very very slowly. I know this feeling! Not that I would hurt any of my readers; I would not. I love my friends. I have no biological family. I'm the lone saddest ranger. Nobody has a Tonto. I said Mommy was unstable; perhaps I am as well. We shall we. More, as the AA crowd says, will be revealed.
7 comments:
El Groucholo don't start feeling like you are the saddest of the lone rangers because then I would have to have a shoot out with you for that title. Of course you would win because I am crazy and they won't let me have a gun but don't think you're alone because the hair under my arms is green.
I was fired by my last therapist, not told therapy is over, but told don't come back...pretty funny when even a therapist won't talk to you.
A word of advice about getting out of the house...smoke those cigarettes that your mother has stashed in her freezer, then you'll become addicted and you know your mother won't go buy them for you, and you will have to leave to go get them for yourself.
And if you were stable of mind MR. Grouchie, you would not be able to be a writer so here is to functional insanity. Your not Miles Davis so i don't think it's a white man you would choke, probably a big fucking yellow bird instead but to each their own, if you got to choke someone, choke Freud.
I know how you feel, Grouchie. I confessed my anxieties to my therapist, Dr. Jennifer Melfi, about my cousin, newphew/protege--Christopher Moltisanti. According to my wife Carmela, the movie Christopher made, "Cleaver," is loosely based on me and my crime family. I have come to the conclusion that the film is disrespectful. In my business and my life, to me disrespect is a very bad and terrible thing. It's even worse than not having a Tonto. This whole movie situation has given me what Dr. Melfi calls "angst" about my relationship with Christopher. I'll fill you in on more of the details later. Thanks to you and Michelle for all your support of the Sopranos.
Yeah, well watch out for the Cookie Monster, he will chew you up and spit you out like ragweed.
My man Oscar.
Haven't talked to you in a eons. I know we've never gotten along; I feel that's because we both have obsessively picky personality types. But maybe you could call me and we'd have lunch sometime or even a few drinks and really talk. Ever been to the Baddabing? Don't ask mommy about that. She'd be pissed and we don't need her to shoot either one of us. Or we could just hit the bookstore. Borders in GP just got a load of new Bukowski. What does a grouch read? Probably the same kind of stuff I do. And the computer doesn't seem to be a problem for you. Don't mess mommy's computer up surfin the net for skin, you hear me Oscar? Careful about flicking buttons too. You never know what you might accidentally do, or send somebody, and then you just gotta hope that the other realizes human frailty when they see it. Do grouches have human frailty? Does the flesh of a grouch burn for everything it's yet experienced? Does the blood of a grouch run red but slowly turn black and stale and congealed in the spiraling, darkest hours? Does the soul of a grouch demand that existence be more than it is and hold it's breath against the truth? Will a grouch ever find contentment in the arms of another, or will lusting embrace after desperate embrace be escaped as soon as it's colors are flown? Why does love sail under the flag of death's head, Oscar? Tell me why does love grant everything but quarter to it's stricken, Oscar. Tell me of the gates of heaven and tell me the stench of the abyss, Oscar. Tell me of a sunset for I have grown ignorant of its beauty and blind from the light, Oscar. Tell me, do miracles come in single servings? Tell me if I lie when I look into your eyes.
Oscar--therapy is bad; therapy in the common sense, that is. Keep writing, O-man, its the best therapy available.
E
Sorry for the inappropriate shooting joke, m. I didn't see the news today when I wrote it. Anyway, I was in Blacksburg, VA, last Spring at about this time--motorcycling, baby!--and it was beautiful. New Market and its famous Civil War battlefield were also nearby--I had to hit every civ war battlefield I saw, too much history to go unobserved. It was also the site of the Virginia Military Institute (VMI), which was pretty much blown to ten hells in 1864. Yes that's your expresion. It was in one of your poems about Texas, from last april. Good stuff on a good day not to watch CNN
It's okay Sir Groucho...
My therapist is a bitch who talks to me like shes my mother and doesn't let me feel angry.
Who needs therapy when alcohol exists?
Post a Comment