The Boloney Chronicles

Look, folks -- I'm with you. I'm not stupid. I can't blame you for not laughing with me.

I know I'm not likeable.

I've never been. Never pretended to be. Never needed it. I just wanted a shred of approval... just the tiniest shred of love, or acceptance. I want so badly; I need so badly. I'm not proud of myself, or some of the things I've had to do. It's a fucking miracle that I'm sitting here, blogging at you today.

Some nights, I dump a handful of sleeping pills out and pour a tall glass of wood-varnish, and just think of downing the whole fucking thing. I watch as the magenta-hued digits on my clock radio flip by as time elapses, a test of wills waging. Will to live, versus handful of pills and pint of varnish. I could end it right there. I should end it right there. But I don't.

Buddy Boloney is too much of a goddamn coward to do it.

Your old pal Buddy Boloney doesn't sleep much these days. I can't quit sobbing long enough to let my exhausted body fall into unconsciousness. It's awful, being woken by the sounds of my own screams. Haunted by faces... by names. By places. I've done things I'm not proud of -- things I can't even chalk up to doing out of survival.

I once punched a clown into unconsciousness. It was a woman clown. I had just paid her for sex.

I once pushed an old lady through a creosote bulletin board.

I drove a car onto a Sikh's foot, and pinned him there while I took his wallet and broke two of his molars with a can of creamed-corn.

You want Buddy Boloney to self-loathe? Give up -- I'm the fucking master of self-loathing. As bad as you think you can make me feel, I do it ten times worser, all before champagne brunch.