Aug the Twelfth
I am goddamn fucking infuriated, Journal. Fucking livid. This entire day has been fucked from the get-go, I swear to Christ.
So we started by waking up, okay, that was Big Mistake Number One. I should have just stayed in bed–… should have just went back to bed, but no. I beat the sunrise yesterday so I kept the pattern going today. That was goddamn dumb, because all I did was walk to The Foothill and smoke and sit there in the leaves like a braindead hairless ape. I could have smoked and stayed in bed; plus, if I had put any actual thought into my actions this morning, I could have smoked out of The Peace Piece instead of smoking a joint, thus saving myself weed and still getting just as high. Big Mistake Number One.
Big Mistake Number Two: not bringing any weed to the site of The True Commons. This mistake is more understandable though: I thought I was being tailed by two police officers the other day, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life in jail. I was traumatized by that event, and that’s okay. What’s not okay is how I went about dealing with that trauma: yesterday I walked all the way up Sawblade, then hiked to the spot. That was egregious, just painful, so rather than walking again today, I just smoked hella dope on the porch then drove up the road and hiked the rest of the way, because it has to be hiked – hardly have the money to put gas in my car, there’s no way I could get myself a quad or a dirtbike or anything. Here’s the thing about that, though: by the time I got to the oasis, I was stone cold sober. Might as well have never smoked at all.
And here’s the thing about that: I had already gone all the way out there, so I wasn’t about to turn back and hike all the way to the road just to drive home, smoke, and repeat the whole shit. I had a plan to gather more rocks today and I was going to stick to that plan. So I did stick to that plan, but here’s the thing about my sticking to my plan: I picked pretty much all of the rocks in the general vicinity of The True Commons yesterday.
To remedy this lack of supply, I decided to venture out past the site of The True Commons and look for puddingstones elsewhere, and Journal, I found some. In fact, I found all the puddingstones, every single last one to ever be formed by whatever arcane process of nature (or more likely, humanity) originally formed them. But here’s the thing about picking rocks: sometimes, there are insects living under the rocks.
Sometimes, Journal, those insects are motherless whoresons (read: yellow jackets).
And sometimes, Journal, those yellow jackets take one look at you doing your best to have yourself a good day and they up and ruin it by stinging you.
On the tip.
Of the goddamned motherfucking nose.
A FUCKING BEE STUNG ME ON THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE JOURNAL I AM SO FUCKING ANGRY!!! WHY THE FUCK DID IT HAVE TO BE ON THE TIP OF MY NOSE? WHY? WHYWHYWHYWHY?!!? I ALWAYS LOVED THE SONG RED NOSE BY TECH N9NE, YOU KNOW? I’VE ALWAYS FUCKING RELATED TO IT, BUT THIS? THIS IS RI-GODDAMN-FUCKING-DICULOUS!!! Hey Mister King, you know your low men in yellow coats? How about ASSHOLE BUGS IN YELLOW JACKETS?! FUCKING ATROCIOUS!!
… … …
God. Fucking. DAMNIT!
… … …
All right, I took a breath… and you know the worst part about it all? I was not just sober but post-high sober when it happened, the kind of sober that leaves you aching for more smoke, and do you want to know when it happened? TEN FUCKING MINUTES AFTER I GOT TO THE SPOT!
And if I wasn’t going to let a lack of high take me back home, I sure as shit wasn’t going to let a bee sting do it. So I stayed out there all day. I avoided the living hell out of the area where I found the bees (after taking out as many as I could with the rampant flailing of my sweatshirt, which I had tied around my waist because it was cold when I ventured out but I got sweaty) – there were plenty of puddingstones elsewhere – and I stayed out there at the site of The True Commons and gathered up all the rocks I need for the border and then some, probably. I don’t actually know how much I’m going to need, but the pile is taller than I am. I’m pretty sure I have enough.
… … …
The sting itself doesn’t even hurt that bad, Journal. Like, it hurts, it stings – no pun intended, but ten bees in ten did die today, I’ll tell you that much right fucking now – but it’s not the physical pain that has me in such a huff. It’s the principle of the thing; it’s not so much that I got stung by a bee, because anybody could get stung by a bee, it’s part of living in a place like Logger’s Pond where society is (loosely) defined as “an area where there aren’t so many trees that you can’t build a house between them.” No, it’s that the ONE, SINGULAR little fatherless product-of-incest whoreson stung me ON THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE!!!!!
THE TIP, JOURNAL! THE TIP OF MY FUCKING NOSE!!
… … …
I feel so, so much anger right now. It’s all of my reality. I didn’t even smoke when I got home, I went right up to my room, folded myself up so I could sit at my tiny little desk, opened you up, and started writing. This has been raw Albey, Journal. No, not even raw Albey – this has been Sidney Blake at his absolute rawest, I embedded my emotions into these symbols I just scrawled into your pages like the asshole bug in its yellow jacked embedded its venom into the tip of my fucking nose. I doubt anybody’s ever going to read my journal – nobody will so long as I’m alive, that much I know for sure, but what happens after the world loses the Mad Poet is not under my control – but if someone is reading this right now, just know that you’ll never read anything like it again. It is pure emotion, pure energy, pure uniquity. I don’t think that wasn’t a word before I wrote it, but if it wasn’t, it is now! So fuck you! And fuck the bees! Fucking motherless bastards, fucking… fucking wing’ed cunts.
GOD I’m angry.
… … …
Well damn… I just took a few minutes to smoke a bowl and I no longer feel the stinging in my nose. I’m not even a tiny bit mad right now. Is it me or is that hilarious? xD
Maybe it’s just me, but that’s okay. It’s just me here, after all. Just me and you, Journal, but you’re less of a you and more of an it, so, y’know.
Well, you don’t, but… yeah.
I was infuriated after a long day of manual labor and getting stung on the tip of the nose by a yellow jacket. Then I came home and smoked a single bowl of weed. Now I’m happy and calm, and a tad bit hungry. And sleepy. I think it’s time for a snack and a lofi nap. How’s that sound?
That sounds great. Oh, sorry, I wasn’t asking you, Journal. I was asking myself. And I answered myself. So now I’m go’n’a go…
… … …
Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Good sleeps and good dreams… and watch out for the yellow jackets. Apparently, they sometimes build hives under rocks~
Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.
Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.
I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.
If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.
Be well Commons~