my ex wife thinks for herself without saying what do I know. her blank eyes make me squirm. where am i going? i’m doing what i can. it hasn’t been not easy. i can’t belief it. i have lost my domestic bliss. i have no one to go home to, being homeless may be preferable to living alone.
i haven’t lived on my own for over fourteen years and even then it was only for a few months after my girlfriend left me.
i have been looking for a place to live. i can’t deal with it. i get headaches, backaches, and neckaches.
i can’ t see where i will stay.
the fat fuck in his chair reading the paper. what is his deal. who is he? the fat chick with a dopey thin guy. they have each other. they can torment one another. they can be codependent.
i don’t want to spend this time alone. i don’t want to think about my ex wife being alone or suffering loneliness rather than being with me. i hope the 225mg anti depressant can block it out. who cares what i want. this life isn’t about what i want. it is about doing obligations not to go insane. it’s about not writing about yourself while writing about yourself. the i only exists as
a political, social, and economic construct? there is no self? the other doesn’t exist either? the soul is an eighteenth century construct?
my ex wife does have our daughter living with her. i have no one to talk to about how fucked life is. i have no one to berate. i have no one to berate me. i have no catharsis. i have myself. i make myself squirm. i have my books of invisible men who make an art of masochism.
lyn showed up. she is seemingly okay. she hands over two skate boards with zero wheels to alexis.
when i was alone i thought thoughts unrelated to what i read. i did the same when i went out in public.
lyn reads the ny times and does the mon tues and wed crossword puzzle. she stabs her irritated pinkish red eyes with her fingers. it isn’t easy to discern whether she is sad that she didn’t die in her sleep or that she is nearing the end. her lungs have been failing her for the past week. my ex wife and daughter went camping in ninety degree weather in the mountains with her drug impaired friends who have been helping her though our divorce.
i like having an ex in my vocabulary for every day use.
the fat stocky woman left with her putz.
the fat fuck with the paper is still here. hey fat fuck get the…
i text pornographic messages to women i don’t know. i feel ashamed.
we should go on a killing spree, i said to the fat fuck in the chair.
he didn’t say anything.
you want to see my dick, i said.
no, he said.
i felt my dick to make sure it was still there. it was lean.
he left the chair that looked like a sagging butt.
when i think about my divorce it is like mourning. i’m losing my wife to a divorce in 2014, five years after my mother passed. she doesn’t want the bed my mother gave us. i don’t remember it having been given. i thought we got it ourselves.
since i resumed psychiatric treatment i distrust spirituality.
there is something insipid about having your life mirrored in a clinical gaze.
my ex wife discloses her fear and pain. i still want to protect her. the lawyers want me to punish her with money even thought they swear they would never let me punish her. they use the word fair like a hammer.
my mother said my father manipulated her with money. shortly after their divorce she married a rich famous artist.
i’m going to have to survive myself without my wife. i’m glad i wont be able to hurt her anymore. you are an asshole she said. you’re right i thought to myself.