I keep waking up in the middle of the night saying “fuck, goddamnit.” my body is slippery with sweat and the blankets are cold and soggy. I thrash in the sheets and kick as each wrinkle in the blanket touches a nerve and joins the conspiracy. I'm usually still half-dreaming. The dreams mingle with the memory and my hope comes crashing down. Last night the dream was about Miller. For some reason, at the end, I was fighting someone and we were beating each other with books, only my blows would pass right through him and his would drop me to the ground. As I regained lucidity, my mind recalled the institutional experience that had really happened. The hopelessness grew. I started to wonder how it was that that boy in the khaki pants turned into this bearded drunk.

I'm trying to figure out where I stand. My sister, the person who formed me more than any, might be dying from cancer. Her lymph nodes are clean, which is a relief, but from reading Monkey Dancing I now know that it can easily metastasize in the bones. I try not to think about such things, but they attack me in the darkest hours and I wake trembling.
My resentments are overwhelming. My past does not seem to be mine and my present, of course, is shaped by my disengaged past. These thoughts, however, are irrelevant, since kimya dawson told me to have a 40 for breakfast and wallow, and that's what i did.

Kimya Dawson - The beer. mp3