Wanted to write this with a picture of Brian Jones, but since I think Brian Jones was murdered in a fit of envy and lashing frustration on the part of the builders on his property Brian himself had been provoking and taunting for a while I decided a picture like that would be misleading. Am not going to google ‘Jim murdered’, cause am sure the internet is rife with theories on that too, but as far as I know Jim left this world… by misadventure. I’d use a picture of Heath Ledger, but he’s kinda my age and that makes my envy of his success possible and I have felt enough envy this week already. Sometimes I think am the only one who openly writes about the dark side of his own ego. Everyone keeps pretending to be ‘good’.

I like the sound of misadventure much better than adventure. Adventure just makes me think of people hiking in the mountains which is an activity that does absolutely nothing for me and I am fucking tired of hearing people say how much they love hiking in the fucking mountains. That’s not what I wanna hear when I ask someone what adventure means to them and I ask many people that question.

There’s an all too juicy thrill in feeling your heart grind while you are popping pills, adding alcohol to the mix, nicotine, enough caffeine to have a Russian infantry division actually accomplish something for two seconds and whatever else that’s the fuck bad for you. It’s almost like your grinding heart is producing an industrial tasting liquid that’s being pushed all the way up to the sides of your tongue. You know it’s bad for you and you feel like your heart is gonna start hammering irregularly soon and then crack and you’ll just sink to the ground like you have been hit by more than one sniper from several directions. But what a death it would be. It’s better than dying of cancer. It beats the shit out of dying by slipping in the bathtub and hitting your head on the sink still preoccupied with the dreariness of a work day that will now never start. It’s better than lying in a hospital bed surrounded by sterile whiteness and having your lungs fail you slowly and because you are in a hospital you can’t even have ‘No fortunate son’ by CCR blaring through speakers the size of your coffin at 130 decibels. About the sound level of a smoothbore cannon hurling destruction at on rushing lines of glistening bayonets. Tearing through flesh and bone of people you couldn’t sit down with to resolve an unpleasantness. What is life other than preparing for its end?

Then you reach that point there is nothing you can ingest anymore without vomiting and you are now in numb daze. You still feel everything and everyone that defeated you in life, but you are too numb to react to it now. There is a loved one here and there whose pain at your dying would be massive, so you go to bed with your own massive pain, falling asleep, your hangover already starting and begging whatever entity may be out there that tomorrow would be different.

This is the shit in me that I am trying to protect you from. The days that my blood feels made of slippery little knives circling around flaying me on the inside. All that I covet and cannot or saw snatched away at the last moment dancing in front of me. Cursing myself for feeling that way, the pain acting like boxes in boxes in boxes in boxes with a different variety of pain jumping out of them. Always enough to hurt me a bit more than I knew I was capable of feeling hurt and always that last gram too light to actually put me out of my misery.

You should be at least 30 before you get to read these letters.