That was an opening week. Three metal yard shifts at The Galley in a row, like a long bunch of hair stuck to your face after a thrashing mosh pit. Am I too old? Yes, there is too old. No, it is not a matter of perspective or feeling young or this spiritual anti-fugacity rescue fountain of youth, it is a matter of constant self-destruction. The plan was not to drink. Drinking and running a bar is a solid and faithful catalyst for a weakly emotional collapse, triggered by watching stupid dramatic TV Shows leaving me for hours crying on the couch. For any reason. Guess loneliness is the most intensive. Going home alone bothered me in the last days. Closing. Kicking arses, not only the prolate abandoned, but if you have just enough energy to move yours back to home to get a welcome lick from your kitten housemate, you question. No, you actualy don´t, you are just pissed. But for the first week managing both, an agency and a bar, I survived standing, even hobbling. Working at the first metal bar in Cambodia is brutal! Stupid rapture of a muscle fibre. My body is operating at its limits. Never was in so much pain like the last two years. Never felt so balanced, so calm, so not human, so contented, so not missing me, being myself. But sometimes I have this idea of falling apart, piece by piece, limb by limb, pulling the veins, sperm the passion, at war with the system of values.
Working at The Galley, at a place constructed and more or less administrated in a DIY manner, just to say so, even it is tremendously stupid. If you want to do, you always have to di it your fuckin self! And if you do, you have to care or you only spoil and don´t give a shit about responsibility. I had a great time with Moni and Match, our two khmer stuff members, who truly metal, they do it! And are reliable, so far. Standing behind the bar again, never worked at a bar, only kitchen, but I was quite often behind the bar in my front desk stage hog years, which are obviously past, now I can drink and I have to be the last, who leaves the bar. My plan actually is not to drink. I have to teach me more discipline. Control. Much to my health. I don´t really care when I die, but I don´t want to die because my body is corrupt, even if we all are, in a different way, but the speers of this frontier are long and sharp. I do good so far. And three times hangover and bleary-eyed is torture. So why not cry a day after and have a chilled shadowy sunday at home. Doing literally nothing. My head is loaded with faces and yelling cake-holes, blurry eyes, narrow shut, wide shut, but I couldn´t handle it, destroyed wasted smashed ruined killed sliced and pale as frozen hell. Am I a socialiser?
