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Bob Flanagan
Pain Journal

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February

Again by the dim light of the television, dim Bob whines as Sheree snores, but I can't hear the TV cause I don't want to hear Sheree, so I've got ear plugs in, which is frustrating because I'd like to hear bald Dennis Hopper talking to Tom Snyder, but I can't stand the sound of Sheree's snoring-I mean I really can't stand it. It unnerves me. I'm the worst snorer in the world, but she doesn't know it cause she's out and I'm up-always up. A nervous wreck. Anti-depressants. Anti-anxiety. Vicodin. Steroids. Feel like crying all the time. I don't want to go on this trip to Boston and Berlin. Gave every last ounce of energy to "Visiting Hours" in New York. Can't give any more. But I'm doing it. I'm hating it, and I'm doing it. I took the ear plugs out-one earplug so I could hear the TV with one ear, but all I can hear is Sheree-I love her, I want to be with her, but that sound! Argh! It makes me want to scream.

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I don't know when the last time was that we had sex. I say that because I'm watching two people fuck on TV. Sheree and I are close, yeah-closer than ever, in some ways-but physically we don't know where to start. Anti-depressants? Maybe. Good excuse. But I still can't shake my depression. This time Sheree's doing great and I'm the one wallowing in darkness-now that's true role reversal. I stopped taking Paxil because I couldn't come. Now I can come, but I don't care. Lately I don't even get hard. I come, but I don't get hard. No help from Sheree. She's dead asleep. And when she does try to help, I run. Last night I snapped her head off because she wanted me to hold her. What kind of jerk am I becoming? Mr. Artist. We get news today of Art Matters grants. $2000 for me, and $1500 each for Sheree and Kirby. But it doesn't lighten my mental load. I'm still full of shit.

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