Fuckshitpissjesuschristgoddamn!

(I stole this from another site)

I am rotten this morning, terrible and miserable and inconsolable.  There are myriad reasons for this, but I am going to begin with the highlight, the backbreaker.  I broke my printer yesterday.  I don't know if I really did it or if it broke on its own, but it won't print.  It just keeps flashing that I need to insert an ink cartridge in the Photo Black spot.  I did.  I used three different cartridges.  Mother Fucker!  The light just keeps flashing and the printer's computer won't let me continue doing anything until I insert a cartridge which I did over and over and over again.  I tried everything I could think of and burned up most of an afternoon trying to be clever, but I could not outwit the machine.  Now I will need to call a repairman.  It will cost me hundreds if not a thousand dollars I am sure.  

Fuckshitpissjesuschristgoddamn!  

Here is why I feel I broke it, though.  I've been experimenting with papers, and I've coated several types of Japanese papers with an albumen mixture  and these I tried to run through the printer.  They are very thin, and the first one, crinkled as it was, jammed in the feeder as it ran through so that I had to stop the printer and remove it.  Things started getting funky after that, but I didn't stop.  Nope, not me.  I tried taping the paper to a thicker piece and running it through, but I did not do a good job.  None of this should make the ink error light come on, but who knows.  I feel guilty on the best days when I am an angel, so it is easy for me to feel the culprit in this fiasco.  

Fuckshitpissjesuschristgoddamn! 

Before the printer snafu, I had been working on images in the study.  I had every intention of going to the beach that morning, of leaving early and walking and swimming in the gentle morning sun, getting lunch and driving back before the day grew unbearable, showering and napping as the air became stifling.  But I sat in the semi-dark instead, cooking up forgotten pictures from long ago shoots, enamored of them one after another after another.  At two, I was running on empty, so I went up to the watering hole and had a sandwich and a glass of wine.  I had not showered and had the flat, greasy hair of the sick and/or perverted, and I felt my face looked puffy and worn.  I wore a bland shirt that had not been ironed and was limp and draped my body in the most unflattering of ways.  There were, of course, beautiful women all around.  I tried to become small and imperceptible and it seemed to work.  No one as far as I could tell noticed me.  

Lunch over, I went to the studio where everything went swimmingly for quite a while.  The papers coated nicely and dried quickly.  Meanwhile, I had printer pumping out a good number of prints on traditional inkjet fine art paper.  And they were lovely.  I love my printer.  There is nothing like working in the studio while lovely images of splay-legged women you would not want to print elsewhere are coming into being.  

When the printer broke and when I had tried and tried to fix it, I needed another drink.  Hendrix Gin was all I had.  

I left the studio to go home and Google the problem.  Many had had it.  There were remedies.  I poured a go cup and headed back to the studio.  

Fuckshitpissjesuschristgoddamn!   Nothing worked.  Hendrix Gin.  

When I finally threw in the towel, it was late dinner time, so I headed to the local Fresh Market to pick up some good cheese and a pear and a brioche.  Unfortunately, they did not have good cheese, nor did they have anything close to a brioche.  

Fuckshitpissjesuschristgoddamn! 

I was confused now and stood in the middle of an aisle with my basket in hand, slump shouldered, greasy haired, befuddled.  I stood there a long time thinking.  I tried looking at the wines, but my eyes have suddenly grown much worse and I could not pretend to make out the names on the bottles.  It was terribly and dreadfully disorienting and the room seemed to pitch and rock in an odd way.  I closed my eyes, but knowing that surely someone would see an old man standing in the middle of an aisle, eyes closed, hand to head, swaying back and forth all greasy haired and hollow and believe that he was in need of immediate attention, I opened them again.  I picked up a bottle of wine because the bottle was slightly blue-ish but transparent.  I went to the deli and got a barbecued chicken breast and a short rack of barbecued ribs and some blue cheese potato salad.  I knew this was bad.  I was lost.  

The printer had put me into a deep and inconsolable funk.  

The night before, I had watched most of "An Artist and a Model," but I had been unable to stay awake and paused it with half an hour left.  I sat down with my crazy meal and the bottle of wine which turned out to be very, very good, and watched the rest of the movie.  It is a good thing I did.  If there was any salvation for that film, it is the last half hour.  I will tell you why another time, perhaps tomorrow.  By the time the movie was over, I was tired of eating and had drunk half the wine.  I wanted a whiskey.  And another movie.  And so I turned on "Night Train to Lisbon."  I was surprised to see that it starred Jeremy Irons, and so sank back into the couch to let the movie carry me away.  And then I wanted desert, and having none, I made a Kaluha and cream.  And then another, only this time I added some Pusser's Rum.  And then to cut the sticky sweet taste out of my mouth. . . you know.  

Movie over, I went to bed.  

I woke with such a headache and such a thirst.  I'd been having bad dreams.  I dreamed my father was alive and we were arguing about my inability to fix things.  I felt guilty because he was right but mean, too, because I know so many other things, have multiple degrees and know matrices that he never had an opportunity to comprehend.  And after telling him all this, I felt sick and guilty, and then waking just sick and thirsty.  That fucking printer.  My life, I felt sick and alone with my bad dreams in the middle of the night, was being ruined.  I got up and drank some water.  And went back to bed.  And repeated twice more.  

This morning I am low.  There is still everything to face plus this terrible hangover you can only get by drinking wine and gin and kaluha and rum and whiskey in a single short night.  Alone.  There is the feeling of being just so.  

Why, we must all consider sometimes if we are old enough, why do we wait for the inevitable end?  Why do we slump toward it with terrible backs and blown out knees and eyes that continue to fail?  Why, when the things we've worked for all begin to own us and we can no longer count on them, why do we stagger forward to that inevitable thing?  Why, we surely must wonder, why wouldn't we cheat it?  Why give it the pleasure of grinding us into bits in its nasty maw?  

There is more to the story than can be told, of course, in the period of a brief and painful morning.  But this is just to say that sometimes there is much to think of and consider.  Our fortunes change without warning.  

Fuckshitpissjesuschristgoddamn!