Below Rock Bottom

I used to know this woman a few years back. Me being an alcoholic and her being a sociopath, things didn't work out just right. We were real sweet on each other as it goes and then it unraveled and that was that. As soon as the axe fell, which is always slower and gradual than I think it's going to be, this residual bullshit would hang in the air. We weren't done but it was obviously over. It's never quick and certainly not easy. And every time we'd hang out after the point of no return, knowing the inevitable result of the briefest interaction, she'd look at me with these dark and tired eyes and say, "Do you really wanna do this right now?"

Thinking on this now because the hesitation, as it goes, and necessity to say fuck it and take the next train out of this shit hole is more palpable than ever. There was a time this summer, (while doing some traveling, drugging, drinking, etc.) that I regretted the distraction because I promised myself to be consistent on this blog, solely for myself since nobody reads this shit anyways. It was supposed to be a way to keep writing and to have constant material because these seasons are always full of the age old familiar and the new and improved BULLSHIT MACHINE. So in the beginning, when the Dodgers were struggling, it was a way to productively vent my frustration, about these assholes and the assholes at large. It went well for awhile. Then the Yankee meltdown happened and then the chance to right the wrongs and the constant lack of power. It was supposed to be a pitching problem, remember? Something was always broken and that is all trivially excluding the McCourt disaster. Universally labeled now with affection, the McCunts. Then they went to Philadelphia and fucked that up beyond repair. They lost in every way imaginable. They were at the very least creative in their fuckedupness. Worst part about the entire season is the constant chances they fucking up. Despite this and despite that, gutting the farm system to get Octavio Dotel, etc. the Dodgers had countless opportunities to just win a few fucking games!!!!!!! And so, with a depleted shit bag team and owners who should be crucified upside down at a barbecue, in a backyard in El Monte, the season is gone. But still not over. These motherfuckers are playing the Giants and nothing matters. They've deemed themselves the most redundant aspect of my life.
And like I said before, I've avoiding this goddamn thing because, Do I really wanna do this right now? In public, going on and on about the same stupid shit that everyone else knows?
People are so tired of the Dodgers bullshit and in a more depressing way than usual. There have been statistically worse seasons and more disappointing moments(I think)but the future has honestly never looked so bleak. And to exacerbate(baseball analyst asshole's favorite vocabulary word) the situation, the cyclical genocide, large scale money laundering and general flatlined morale of american society has never been worse. Nothing it seems can balance this debt. And every time you think you see some glimmer slicing through the pitchblack shades, as you lie there on the flophouse floor, it's nothing. You're left there wondering why you ever gave a shit in the first place.
And just like the slow blade of a bad deal concerning a woman or man, anything you give a shit about, you wonder the same thing. I don't want to do this right now. Or ever. But I do. I hang on for a little while, walking to her house, up the stairs to a certain death. And death it surely is. But I'm here now. I'm still walking there and I don't know why. I'll probably do it again next year.