Lauren is in Louisville for a month.
She's staying in a suffocating apartment with windows that look directly into its suffocating Siamese twin.
Without a vehicle, she is anchored in Louisville's ghostly downtown.
It's snowing and cold and no one wants to leave their suffocating apartments.
I'm unemployed or freelance or whatever the fuck you want to call it.
I didn't qualify for the dole.
So for all of January I've stayed inside our own suffocating apartment trying not to spend money.
There hasn't been any work in the world of fucking production bullshit.
Once a week I work at the bar.
I make about $32.
Last week a drunk girl tried to steal one of the ceramic pigs from the bar.
I had to wrestle it out of her drunk-powered clutches.
That was the most honorable thing I've done all month.
The Nurse Novels played Subterranean.
We had to make $300 from the door in order to make any money.
It's a shitty sleazy deal, but we wanted to play a show.
The door generated $304.
I handed out $1 bills to the other three bands.
It was hilariously depressing.
Today I had to cancel our show for next week.
I finally got some work.
But one of the days I'm working is the day of the show.
And right now work trumps artistic aspirations.
The Nurse Novels are dissolving.
It's too bad.
I thought we were a better band than Sandwich Shop.
The songs were better.
Our musicianship had improved.
But I didn't have the energy to get anyone to care.
I spent all that on Sandwich Shop.
So I sit at home.
With Lauren gone, it means a tremendous increase in masturbation.
It feels good.
And then it ends.
And it feels empty.
And I lie there for a while.
Until it dries.
When it's dry it means less materials used cleaning up.
Yup.
Keep reading.
Over the course of the month, I drank all the bourbon that we had in the liquor cabinet.
So yesterday I bought a bottle of wine.
Yellow Tail is perpetually on sale.
So I got that.
A constantly full glass sat on my nightstand while I instant-watched Office reruns again on Netflix.
I nodded off around 10pm with the lights on and my laptop open.
At 6am I woke up.
The glass was still full from the night before.
I hate to see anything go to waste.
So I decided to finish the glass.
I watched more Office episodes for the fourth time.
I tried watching a documentary about parking lot attendants.
But it was awful.
Self-proclaimed freaks who stayed in a college town too long showing off about how wacky and iconoclastic they are.
Wait.
Isn't that pretty much what this blog is?
I began to hate myself some more.
And the only way to combat it was to love myself.
Buzzed on sunrise wine, I began to jack off once again.
While reaching for a hotel container of lotion on the nightstand, I accidentally knocked over the glass of wine.
The glass shattered and wine splashed onto the walls.
It stained an enormous Beatles book.
It spilled all over several unframed pictures of Lauren.
Oh no, oh no.
I hobbled in only a hoody to the bathroom.
While getting a handful of toilet paper, I saw my image in the mirror.
My dirty wayward greying hair.
The tape on my glasses.
My chapped lips, stained purple.
A limpening penis shamefully pointing south.
It was 8am.
It would be fun to kill myself.
So these days would end.
I could stop being a failure.
You know what I mean?
But that wouldn't be much fun for anyone else.
Like Lauren.
Or my family.
Or anyone that has given me encouragement about whatever it is I do.
So I won't kill myself.
But I don't know what else there is to do this month.
Verdict: Loss
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