GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #287: WORTH THE SQUEEZE

Since my return from the hospital, I have mostly been cooped up at home, mostly in bed watching stuff on Netflix and Prime. Today I did something I haven't done in years. Maybe decades. And it felt so fucking good I had to tell you all about it.


I decided I wanted a book. Badly. Instead of going to Amazon I decided to get it the old fashioned way: go to bookstores and find it myself. Don't you sometimes miss that? Hunting something down instead of letting Jeff Bezos find it for you and possibly sending it to you the next day? Sure, I go to bookstores, but it's mostly to browse. I haven't gone to one in ages looking for one particular book. So I got outside today and did some hunting.


Yes, I went to every fucking bookstore within comfortable driving distance, and I searched them all for what I was looking for. I had to have been in half a dozen Half-Price Books. I went to Anderson's. Hell, I went all the way down to Darien to the Frugal Muse. And not a single fucking one of them had the book I was looking for.


My final planned stop was Cornerstone, a used book store in Villa Park pretty close to my comics shop. Dammit, I made it too late. They were closed. Then I had a horrible thought. So terrible that I don't want to admit it here. But . . . well . . . here goes.


There's a Barnes & Noble at the Oak Brook mall. Why not try there? It was still open. What else do I have to do? Go home and watch more Netflix?


So I went to Barnes & Noble. I went past all the crap that aren't books that they sell. I went up a fucking escalator, for fuck's sake. And then I went to the section I needed. And guess what?


They had the book I was looking for. They had three copies.


Shamefully I grabbed the book. I made sure it was the right one. Then I went down the escalator and bought the book. I hated that I had to resort to this. Who knows? Maybe in the end my purchase will keep Barnes & Noble alive for a full three extra minutes in the end.


Then I got out to my car. I held the object of my day-long hunt in my hands.  And goddam, if I didn't feel fucking elated. I'd done it the old fashioned way. It was still possible. Maybe I didn't win the way I expected, but goddammit I fucking won.


I can't tell you how happy that made me feel.


If you're wondering what the book was, take a guess. If you've been following me on social media, I'll give you a hint: it's the basis of one of the shows that kept me going during my most recent illness.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #160: MY WRITING IS DECADENT AND DEPRAVED

Many of you longtime readers and friends know that I don't drink and write. I'm horrible at that kind of thing. I don't make sense when I try shit like that. Every once in a while, I will drink and edit. It helps to distance myself from my own work, to make me feel like I'm editing a stranger's work. But write and drink? It has not happened in ten years because it doesn't work.


Until now. For my secret project, I've been drinking and writing. I can't get into the proper headspace without it. It's a special brand of writing that requires being fucked up. I don't feel possessed without it. If I'm just sitting there in front of my computer and typing, it just doesn't feel right unless I've had three shots of whiskey and a beer before writing. At the least. Sometimes some Wild Irish Rose helps. Thankfully this is not going to be a novel. It won't destroy me. Just so long as I can get through the next week of writing in this weird altered state, I think I can survive.


It's weird being in someone else's head, especially the head of a dead man. I'm OK with that kind of thing when they're fictional characters, but when they're real life people, it fucks with me. I don't think I'll ever do this again. It's taking a toll on me. It's fun, but I think if I ever do this again, it will destroy me. Because . . . well . . . it's not just the drink.


Here's the weird, fucked up thing: I'm not getting paid for this gig. I'm doing it for the challenge. It's fucking with me in ways I can never say. It consumes my every thought, and I wonder if I should have ever been given all the medication I've been given all these years. Some are painkillers, and some are psychotic drugs given me because they have an effect on the strange digestion I suffer from.


What am I saying? Well shit. I've always been honest with these GF's. I'm not going to stop now. I don't recommend acting in this way, but it works for me. Shit, it might not even work for me. I don't know what I'm babbling about.


I'm almost done with this story. I think I'll be done in a week, and then I'll stop this nonsense. I won't have a reason to continue after this. I would not be doing this without needing to write this story. I have every confidence that I will stop this when I'm done. Besides, what doctor would give me more drugs to continue this madness? I'm not good at getting drugs on the street, so I won't be able to continue.

Shit. If this story sucks, I'm fucked. All of this will be for nothing. But I feel confident. I read everything I've written every day, and I think it's good. I hope it's all worth it.