The Gonzo Journals
May 11th, 2019
It’s already been that kind of morning. I’m back at that Toyota dealership listening to some washed-up hack scream about basketball and paying through the nose for maintenance I used to do myself on older vehicles. To boot, I accidentally just went into the women’s restroom.
The dead giveaway was a lack of stand-up urinals. Also, a woman’s voice replying to my sudden cry of “what the fuck” sealed the deal. I’m so glad I wasn’t zoned out. Can you imagine the terror of being a woman sitting next to a hairy bear while it blasts ass like a Russian drone?
Last night, I had the pleasure/displeasure of watching my idol reveal to the world he’s taking a step back. Kevin Smith just spent a month in a mental facility dealing with some repressed issues. These moments in time shaped him into the man I’ve grown to love and admire, but now he plans on placing that man on the back burner. His internet presence will be minimal, and he’s even quitting weed. I’ll miss him, but whatever you need to do in order to heal and be happy should be your top priority. Not fame. Not money. You can see his entire confession on YouTube. I won’t bother repeating it here.
When it was over, I told my wife something about my childhood that I’ve never told another living person. It wasn’t as liberating as I hoped it would be. I’ve got a lot of shit buried deep down, and I plan to keep it there until the great dirt nap. I don’t have time for therapy, group sessions, or hugs with strangers. I’ve made it this far. That’s good enough for me.
Writing daily for the last five months has been the best mental comfort I’ve ever experienced. It’s a way to flush the toilet, so to speak. Get those stray, negative thoughts out of my head bowl, and refill my brain with better times. Besides, what am I going to do about the darkest part of my memories? Dig up the bastard responsible and shake him with truthful confessions until his head falls off? He took his own life twenty years ago in a police standoff. It couldn’t have happened to a better man as far as I’m concerned.
Still, shit rolls downhill. Every bad someone commits was most likely instilled there by someone in authority above them. In my case, this guy was a foster kid and adopted by a family who quenched his wackiness by giving him everything his heart desired. One day, he wanted to die, and his family couldn’t or wouldn’t provide that service. He took it upon himself to see it through.
I’d love to go back in time and tell this asshole how negatively he shaped my life by crossing boundaries that could never be uncrossed. I’ve been living with it for over 40 years. The damage was so deep that it spilled over onto others over the years. It made me extremely codependent in a place where I could’ve benefitted from a lot less dependency. During times of loneliness, I filled those holes with nameless sex and an overabundance of alcohol. I came damn close to mimicking his exit as well. Thank the gods for wrong turns. I don’t think I have the same sized balls as The Great Gonzo who blazed my journalistic desires.
The details are disgusting and, unlike most attention whores on social media, I won’t reveal them to the public. Just know that I, like all of you, have secrets to keep and miles to go before the best exhale of my existence. One person knows the truth, and I know it will stay there. Well, at least the damaging moments I recall. Lots of repressed images have worked their way to the surface as I’ve aged. I’m frightened to know what still swims beneath the black. I imagine it rivals the worst of my literary tales from years gone by. Hell, it may be something I’ve written, but my mind changed the names to protect the innocent.
Who am I kidding? Innocence is an illusion. We are guilty the moment we pop our head out the cooter.
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