Covid Suicide Thoughts, And The Fate of Biden's Cadaver

I woke up, and it was 1:30 in the afternoon.

I used to wake up at this time regularly, without the aid of any alarm clock. I think this has something to do with the sun reaching its zenith here in New Orleans at about that time. 

Busking from around 10 p.m. until around 12:30 a.m. and then shopping for "the big meal of the day" out of the proceeds, then coming home, counting the tip money, preparing and eating the meal etc. usually had me drifting off right before sun up.

But, today, I had woken up from a dream in which I was dreaming that I was depressed. That's the only way to describe it. In my dream I was sitting on my bed feeling abject despair.

Maybe this is because I had been slamming coffee with aloe nectar and cinnamon and watching Youtube stuff until passing out just before sunrise, I was having blood sugar level issues, which, in my dream state I tried to rationalize with the dream about sitting on my bed wishing I had never been born.

I woke up and was, I guess, relieved that it was only a dream; but there was still some lingering residue from it. I was on a a roller coaster of emotional states, triggered by thoughts which alternated between good and bad.

The Lidgleys have sent a Christmas parcel from London, and may just have gotten it in the mail in time for it to beat the rush and make it here within the next 8 days...this was uplifting. 

But then I remembered that I was out of kratom and out of tobacco and this was kind of a concern, but, on the bright side, I had already gotten all the raw materials to embark on a juice fast for a few days with, in order to set my house in order that way.

I would be finding out just what kratom withdrawal is like, if that exists. If it does, it will have to duke it out with alcohol withdrawal, since my last drink (ever?) was Monday, when I had sunken to the level of a 24 ounce Milwaukee's Best Ice at $2.72 each, out the door. That had reduced to 41 cents the balance on a bank card that had peaked at a bit over $1,500 back in August.

I have a nice set of stereo speakers to show for that, and everywhere I look in my apartment there is some evidence of the money, but a lot of it is a blur, since about that time I started buying daily six packs in varieties of "micro" brews, which were mostly right around 10 bucks each, and which I usually wound up consuming all six of, rather than the two or three that I might have had, when I was running to the store for one at a time.

The nicotine vapes were about 12 bucks each, and lasted about a day and a half, making them about the same price as the best cigarettes; and the kratom was about 65 bucks, but lasted about 10 weeks.

I was hesitant to make big purchases like getting a bass guitar, which I would need a USB adapter/mixer for, in order to plug into the laptop. I could do the math and see that I would have been in the boat I am in now weeks ago, had I done that.

I sent for a new de-railiure (sp?) for the Windstream bike, which has been sitting upside down for about 12 weeks, waiting for me to get to it. It's going to require opening the chain, for which I might need a chain separator type tool. Then, I am going to have to bend the frame back into place where the torque, from it kinking up when I was pedaling pretty hard, bent it an inch or so towards the wheel. 

That would, it seems, be best done with something like a set of pliers with five foot handles (or to fit a long pipe over the handle of a regular set of vice grips). It's not the most daunting task in the world, but there is pressure on me to accomplish it, else I have wasted about 30 bucks on the new de-railiure, and the Windstream will remain upside down in my apartment, so I might as well make a clothes drying rack out of it.

Nicotine withdrawal, I have found is something where you wake up the next day and find yourself looking around for a cigarette, before remembering that you have quit. 

And the discomfort does subside -you can look forward to it being less the next morning; but not before you perhaps aggravate the situation with a cup of strong coffee, a shot of kratom, God forbid a few tokes off a joint, and, something like a decadent cheeseburger from Rally's; consume at your own risk.

I drank down about 16 ounces of prune juice, and was able to eliminate whatever I had eaten the previous day; one of those free meals that are always splayed out on the table in the front lobby. I can usually help myself to a half dozen of the vegetarian ones, which have like a meatless ravioli under a bed of green beans. The ones that have meat in them are usually snatched up by other people.

The exact time that the boxes of them arrive from somewhere is like a national secret, and it is the lobby lizards -those social animals that can't stand being alone in their rooms, and so hang out in the lobby, just to watch people come and go and, I'm guessing, to gossip about them as soon as they are out of earshot. There are about a half dozen of them; social animals, busy bodies, the most fitting term escapes me...

But, it is good that some group donates the food things. I found the company's website, that makes them, and asked them about the ingredients, since there are none on the packaging, but never heard back from them. I wonder if they were incredulous that I would be worried about partially hydrogenated soybean oil in a  free meal, or if the company has been out of business for a long time, and they are delivering the meals out of some huge warehouse/freezer that might have been installed after hurricane Katrina, as an emergency food supply.

But, the juice fast that I have been dying to go on has been bumped back a day at a time as I have been grabbing those things and microwaving them on half power for about 5 minutes. After a six pack of beer, I will eat almost anything..

Update: Continued...

I just got back from walking to Rouses Market. It is about 38 degrees out, with a strong wind. That's enough to drive most people here indoors. They put on their one heavy jacket and go outside briefly before thinking better of it. They don't realize that a couple shirts and a heavy sweatshirt under their one heavy jacket would be more suitable.

After walking the mile and a half to Rouses and shopping for about 10 minutes I was sweating as I stood at the register.

There was a heavyset black lady in front of me who was buying a few things with a couple bottles of hot sauce included.

"Will you buy my cat food, and I'll pay for your hot sauce?" I asked her.

She told me she would pay for my cat food and that I didn't have to pay for her hot sauce, adding that she thought that cat food could be bought using food stamps. 

"I think they stopped doing that to discourage senior citizens on fixed incomes from trying to live off it, so they can stretch their money for the whole month..."

This got a laugh and the lady handed me five dollars  -I can add "professional comedian" to my resume now, I guess.

Update 2; Continued Again...

12:51 a.m. -Just back from a brisk walk to the Shell, where I bought a 24 ounce Bud Ice, the beer which is priced for the everyday American alcoholic.

I remember once, I was hanging out with Leslie Thompson, back when we would busk together doing guitar and double harmonicas on songs like "Because" by the Beatles (the song's chords are so complex that both harmonicas were usually landing on at least one of the right notes) and others.

That gig hadn't lasted long. 

The first night, we made something like 38 bucks in a little over an hour. 

The second night, Leslie showed up falling down drunk, having neared the end of a gallon of whiskey, which he had cashed his half of the money from the previous night in on. 

We played a couple songs, with him wobbling like a weeble™, and then I finished the rest of the night while he lay prone on the sidewalk about 12 feet away from me, on the other side of Lilly's stoop. It was a scene that would have Norman Rockwell reaching for his canvas; the busker; the guy passed out, the gas lamp casting its feeble light on the spectacle...dogs walking by, upright, and carrying pool sticks...

But I had run into Leslie somewhere and he had asked me to "sport" him a beer.

"Can you sport me a beer?" he asked. I think he had once mis-heard someone asking someone else to "spot" him a beer, and I think nobody ever corrected him on that. Leslie is beyond correction, most probably figure.

But, I went into Brothers Market -it was- and bought a couple 25 ounce cans of Bud Ice, one for him, one for me.

"Yes!! The right choice!! The strongest!!" he had ejaculated upon seeing me emerge from the store holding them. I need to ditch this guy, I remember thinking.

So, fast forward to, I don't know, seven years later, and here I am making "the right choice" in spending the five bucks (minus two cans of Harold food) that the nice heavyset black lady had given me in Rouses Market.

I had a chance to think, as I walked home from there. 

I remembered someone telling me once that black ladies are the best tippers (and maybe the best marks for skeezers, too). And, I have found there to be some truth to this, especially when busking during times like Essence Fest or after The Bayou Classic (football game that pits two "black" college teams against each other) These are a couple of the times when the Lilly Pad becomes flooded in a sea of black faces -them not knowing that they had strayed down Bourbon, past the gay section, and were now at a piano bar. 

Somehow a piano bar is like a black person repellent, but before they realize this, they may surround me and facetiously request songs by rap artists, such as "Two Chains," "Yo, break me off some Two Chains!" but it is usually the heavyset black ladies who will tell them to leave me alone and then drop a nice tip in my basket. They hold enormous power as mother figures, I guess. 

I was hoping the lady that gave me the five bucks would make one last stop on her way home, at the neighborhood convenience store, where she would buy a scratch-off ticket and hit the $50,000 jackpot; and that she would relate it to having given me the five bucks (and would become a life-long generous heavyset black lady).

I'm always thinking about stuff like that.

But it did me well to have that happen. I had just been thinking "Why do I hate people so much, what's wrong with me?" after I had walked by the Holy Ground bar on the way to Rouses and had picked a half cigarette out of the ashtray, only to hear a female voice from inside the place yell: "Get outta there!!"

Really?

You are in there every night getting shitfaced, as your hopes and dreams and every great turn that you may have once envisioned your life taking, all fade like the setting sun; hating yourself at some core level because of what you have become; ruing an existence that surely has been compromised as the bottle takes its toll on you like drops of water falling on rock over the course of centuries, and knowing that you took the beautiful gift of life that God gave you and laid it to waste by turning yourself into nothing more than just one more blubbering drunk; and you are going to blubber: "Get outta there!" for the whole bar to hear, at the sight of me picking the ashtray?

Really?

How else am I going to prove that I don't take the virus seriously than to smoke out of a random ashtray. Get a life, bitch!

...why do I hate people so much; what's wrong with me?

So, I probably forgot to file for my weekly unemployment check; I don't know, because the past week is kind of a blur; the drinking (and some crack) got out of hand.

Hopefully it will come in tomorrow, and then I will have to willfully continue my fasting and abstinence, having gotten a glimpse into the spirit world of the alcoholic, but then, the divine grace of the mother figure...

Since Google wants to shunt the traffic to this blog because their algorithm shows me having watched one too many Newsmax video, while having not watched one CNN video all the way through (my vomit shorted out the keyboard or something) I might as well throw this in.

Political Insight

Picture a group of people who want to ransack and pillage a house.

They have to think of a way in, so they hatch the plan of boosting Joe Biden up, by cupping their hands together, and then lifting him up by a foot -the one that's not broken.

"Go Joe, go! You can do it, you're not too old; Come on!" they encourage him.

He reaches the window and crawls inside. 

Then, according to plan, he goes downstairs to the front door and opens it, letting them all in.

Once inside, they immediately pounce upon Joe, killing him. 

Then, they occupy the house, taking it completely over; ransacking and looting it, until it is just a gutted out shell.

"We never liked you, you white piece of shit, who disproportionately locked up blacks after calling them 'super predators' and has had ties to the KKK, you slimy swamp bastard! Trump was right about you!!" they say, as they toss his cadaver out the back door.

Addendum: On Hypocrisy

Those of you who might read this and think, what a hypocrite, he bashes the drunk inside the bar, and then in the very next paragraph talks about his drinking and smoking crack...
You just don't get it.

That's "my sense of humor"...the whole point of this blog...