Yesterday I challenged a 200 pound Dominican man to an arm wrestle. We were outside on the stoop, he said no to my offer about a thousand times and I begged him repeatedly to wrestle me. What is most interesting to me about the Dominican-Arm-Wresting-Championship, is that I actually thought I’d win. In hindsight I sit wondering, “What the fuck was I thinking…” All we had was concrete to rest our elbows on, so during the match the skin separating from my elbow took most of the brunt. I fought hard enough to watch blood pool onto the stone before accepting the idea that I might loose. But even then, I wouldn’t let go until I was pinned to the concrete and a 200 pound Dominican plumber was screaming, “Dominican Power! Dominican Power!”
I’m like that python that dies from attempting to eat a horse that’s one-thousand times its size. Or maybe he doesn’t die. Maybe he purges his mistakes and finds another binge.
Currently I’d like to beat the shit out of something and get punched in the face. Run until I throw up. Get thrown off a bike and feel the road rash for miles. Jump from a roof. Any brutal, bloody massacre would be fine by me. The intensity of my insides needs to be matched on the outside. I need to feel the release. I need my body to go through something terrible so I can feel the pain somewhere else and watch it explode and regenerate. When I drank, I did that quite well.
I’m sure in ten years, five years, one year, tomorrow – I’ll look back on this blog and harshly criticize its idiocy and shamefully disgusting lean towards self-indulgence. Hopefully, it’s intendment in documentation and its commitment to the vulnerable and defenseless truth will allow me to swallow it.
Patience is not my strongest suit. I’m partial to living hard, fast and giving up everything. I’m plagued with thoughts like, “It’ll all be over soon, might as well give it all that I have and be left with nothing.” All we ever have is what’s in our head anyway. Balls to the wall.
I return to my usual debate: When to keep fighting? And when to walk? And god I wanna fight so bad. I think I “should” walk, but I can’t stop fighting. I just stand back and watch myself not let go. I need to be more patient. It’s a power struggle with myself and reality.
Dear Reality, you’re a cunt. And I’m exhausted.