How ’bout a recipe?

Reading the news today it’s as if someone was trying to deliberately encourage me to hate people.

Not that they need any.

Now I don’t hate everyone. Some people have done some very nice things for me over the years, from Tijuana hookers to 3rd party pot providers to the good people at Kevorkian Limited who offered to send the missing piece to the Suicide Home Kit I ordered years ago.

Instead of ranting, how about a recipe? I tried it and found it very agreeable, except I substituted “spinach” with a pound of “ground beef”.

I bought bags of individual “ravioli squares” which I had to arrange. Next time I’ll get the boxed ravs.

“LAZE-ONYA”

2 pkgs frozen cheese ravioli
1 jar spaghetti sauce (e.g. Classico Tomato and Basil)
1 pkg shredded pizza cheese (Sargento)
1 pkg frozen spinach, defrosted and drained

Place ¼ cup sauce in bottom of large casserole dish. Place ravioli in single layer atop sauce, followed by spinach and topped with cheese.

(Each successive layer begins with more sauce).

One layer from bottom up =

cheese

spinach (or meat)

ravioli

sauce

Number of layers depends on size of dish.

Place in 350° oven for 35-40 minutes.

Cheese should be bubbly and ravioli hot throughout.

Death will be my Christmas

“There’s nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.”  –Erna Bombeck

It’s 0140, Christmas morning.  I stopped being a child long ago.  There is very little of me left.

I like adulthood for being able to tune out Christmas music and ignore decorations.  The economy has so many people on edge that spray-snow-in-a-can optimism and cheer has dropped off.  Fatigue is in the air like burning tire smoke.  I want to take a chainsaw to the size of our criminal government, carve it down to something small and useful, like a pocketknife.

I went to the drugstore to peruse the As Seen on Tv crap.  Everything was still $19.99.  No Chia Pets!

No one needs a Chia Pet, that’s why it’s brilliant.  I don’t need one: I have dope.

I’ve smoked-out only once, “in moderation”.  I felt no happier.  I am going through the motions of being alive.

I saw a girl in the drugstore.  Tan jacket and ponytail, not ugly, not beautiful, but lovely.  Life.  I looked at her head, at the chestnut ponytail.  Life.  How pointless and precious.

I didn’t buy shit.  I had bought shit earlier, elsewhere.  I averaged approx. $50 per person times 5, an enormous sum for me.

I’d make it a thousand but I don’t have it.

I hate gifts, even getting them.  Let me explain.  I live in America, do you?  We can get nearly anything we want at any time of year (if you want pot all you gotta do is befriend 3 strangers).  Gifts:  if someone I know wanted something badly and I could afford it, I’d get it for them.  The people I know need what they want, they don’t waste.   I don’t like being forced to do anything; take something pleasurable like buying a gift for someone, and make it mandatory.  That’s hell.

You cannot opt out of the gift game unless you are a hermit.  I’ve tried.  It’s horrible to receive anything when you have nothing to give in return.  And yes, I tried warning everyone I knew not to give me anything.  It doesn’t work.

I have no useful advice for surviving holidays, any of them.  Enjoy what you can.

Death will be my Christmas.   Not suicide but natural death, I can wait.  I look forward to the change of pace and new environment, even in Hell.  It’s hell anyway to be alive yet numb.

Pot, pancakes, despair

Last night (ah, the horrors that follow those words) I reached for marijuana, just a few hits off a joint cig (stuff called “Ultra II” if that means anything) the first time I’ve touched any plants since Xmas.

Pain was (and is) eating me alive, but since that’s going to happen anyway, why not file a few teeth out of the shark’s mouth?

It worked, sort of.  I took 4 small hits.  The shit worked as promised and I waited another hour before driving.  I went to my friend Egg’s house, where he prepared homemade French bread pizzas with fresh garlic  (complimenting the half a giant candy bar I wolfed down on the way over).

Egg is up on my complaints with women.  I explained the latest delusions I was using to keep my spirits propped up.  Women are founts of life and primordial swamps of misery.  You can’t hate what you love, the rose has to be planted in manure, etc.  Egg knew all this already, his hard-working wife fully provided him CliffsNotes on the subject of female capriciousness by forever going out with fags while not fucking him as much as he would like.

While Egg left to take his drunkard older brother home, I stayed with his two young sons, the 5-year-old and me ending up watching Born on the 4th of July.  I hate Oliver Stone but don’t deny his genius, his movie worlds have their own laws of physics, morality and are beautiful to watch.

Of course, we couldn’t watch long because of the horrific nature of the film and fortunately the kid lost interest.  When Ron Kovic was lying down screaming (which as Tom Cruise as he did a lot) I told the kid “the guy was having a nightmare he was being burned with a giant popsicle”.  Maybe it was the truth.

I went from my computer to Egg’s computer and the internet was just as I’d left it at my place.  The rambunctious kid kept playfully attacking me, trying to jump on my lap.  Normally I hate children but as an honorary uncle I wrestled him a little.  It helped remove some of the despair from the air.  Despite the urchin’s cherubic looks someday he too will be going through the same hell I am now, that all men suffer, gay or straight, rich or poor.  Who knows what her name will be or even if she’s born yet.

It finally got late.  Egg returned, his wife came back from partying with the finooks and he and I went to Wal-mart and ate breakfast at an all-night chain (not ihop).

I’m going to fucking die and I’m sorry it wasn’t last night in my sleep, those pancakes were good.