Endless mouths and assholes swallowing and shitting.

Bukowski had the right idea.I read “Ham on Rye” last night and I’ve never identified with a character as much as I have with Hank Chinaski. Sure, I’m not an alcoholic and I haven’t had many fistfights but everything else may as well have come pouring out through a hole in my head. He used words in a way that I simply don’t have the ability to and although I’m a bitter, jealous person I am also relieved and thankful.Every morning when I wake up I cling to the bed a little longer – I think I’d be perfectly happy just to stay there with a drip hooked up to my arm, maybe even without one if the only alternative is the monotony I live in at the moment. I go to work and that flapping mound of a flesh puppet Leon is there. He has beady, empty eyes and for a man that devotes his life to propelling himself to the top of his very limited job he seems to lack any kind of LIFE ambition. He’s married to a shrew with a pinched face and a slack jaw, they have a fat baby and they’ve got two mortgages and debt up to their eyeballs. They go on holiday to Greece and Turkey, or to some cheap villa in Spain and while they’re there they bicker about petty shit at home and live the same drudge in a sunnier location. His biggest dream is to have three mini-speedboats which he is going to use for fishing purposes – just like his last biggest dream was to get a projector instead of a television. I could weep. One day when he comes in the door and begins to talk I will. I’ll lie down on the floor and I’ll fucking wail until they drag me away. I’m not saying I’m any better, but I’m a hypocrite and would rather surround myself with people who at least superficially have some kind of passion for life and doing something worthwhile even if you know deep down that you’ll call them up in 10 years time and they’ll have a bungalow and a fat baby of their own. And I say this while buying - and worse still, ENJOYING buying - copious amounts of beautiful shoes. I want to vomit.I’m going to travel half way across the world in October. This miserable job will pay for it so I endure the stress and then laugh at myself for getting stressed about something that matters so little. Maybe tomorrow I won’t get out of bed after my first clinging fifteen minutes are over.