Today marks nine months since I slipped. I know this because there is a two-year calendar nailed to the ceiling above my couch, and today is the day that is circled this month. It's taken me almost a year to figure out it was sabotage.
Something stinks, and this time, it isn't me. Where's that damn cat?
"Hey, Shit!" I said, even though I know that furry bastard doesn't understand a word of anything that comes out of my mouth. In a move to get up, I threw my leg off the side of the couch and straight into the corner of the coffee table. Someone moved it. I'll fucking kill them.
I went to go take my pills, my arm flailing for any of the several light switches on the way there, but my accuracy has never been very good. Why is it so dark? I felt around for the bottles, knocking over all kinds of crap in the process. "Cylinders," I think to myself, "cylinders, you stupid shit." Jackpot. With the child-proof lid ripped off, I poured myself a healthy number and threw the pills at my face. Most of them missed and went tumbling down to the sink, ricocheting around the ceramic basin. They finally stopped at the drain, due in part to the lovely green build-up residing on the drain plug. It's all the same, anyway, because hopefully, with the way the fast food is writhing in my gut, I'm not going to be alive much longer. I can feel the alien mass squirming, spearing its tendrils into my gastrointestinal tract with the sole purpose of using my filthy body as a platform for propogation. I sincerely hope it is an alien, for my fate is much more harrowing otherwise. At least I'll be dead when their kind takes over the world. It's funny what sabotage can do.
Putting together the soggy, bile-stained puzzle pieces was, by all accounts, a gross mistake. I figure there's something to be had steeping in one's own ignorance. Knowing what's wrong with you is a terrible thing, because there's a damned good chance you can do nothing to correct it. Once you give something a name though, once you label it as a particular 'thing', you move away from what it does and only focus on what it means. The only thing that matters any more is the ramifications. The 'smart' person would leave their problems unclassified. Everyone else, though, has to go through the post-mortem song and dance for every little thing. And let me tell you, there is a distinct lack of 'smart' people in this world.
I made my way back to the couch, dodging the miscellaneous crap strewn all over the place. I've always liked the first ten minutes after you wake up, the ones where you're not half asleep in bed, but rather where you're up; moving, those first waking moments where you're still drunk on sleep. In my destructive wake, it looks like I stepped on some things. Too bad the cat wasn't sleeping in my way. I sat down and slumped into a sort of comatose state. My eyes unfocused from the paint peeling on the wall across from the couch, and for all I hoped I'd slip from comatose to coma on the spot. Several minutes passed, until the cat started mewling for whatever reason it does. Food. I should probably eat too. I slipped back into my little coma.
I finally snapped back into reality, with what I hoped was hours having since passed.
"First," I said to the cat, "I'm gonna find the sonofabitch that did this to me." It laid there next to me on the couch, one eye open, curled up into one and a half cheez-doodles. "Then," I continued, "I'm going to kill him." Trite, but true. The cat got up and walked away. One of these days I'm going to kick that thing, and I think it knows it's coming. Both the cat and the crooked fucker that put me here.
I heard some activity outside my door, and in came the day's mail. The mail system in this apartment complex is so strange. Normally, there's a grid of post-office boxes near the front entrance, at least that's how I always thought it was done. Here though, there's a mailman that comes door to door, greeting you with his pleasant whistling to let you know your mail has made it safely through the bowels of the United States Postal Service. I always fear for my letters not making a safe journey through that hellish infrastructure. Wrought from fire and brimstone, the steaming tubes of the mail sorting system devour and spit out rerouted bits of mail in a state unlike their original. Their casings are emblazoned with various runes and symbols, acting as a sort of identifier as to where its final destination should be. My worries crop up in this system because I have heard stories of pieces that simply fail to make it through. Somewhere in the folds of the USPS intestines lay mostly digested chunks of pulp, mere relics of letters. Intestines. Digested. Goddamnit, I forgot to eat again.
Expecting nothing but bills and bullshit, I walked to the door and picked up my mail. Amidst a tack of plain white envelopes sat a letter sized, eight-and-a-half by eleven manila envelope, addressed to me, sent by a Mr. Jefferson. Twice a month, like clockwork, for a year, a man that prefers to call himself Mr. Thomas Jefferson sends me a letter, no longer than one page, on Presidential correspondence stock. The sheet is always in pristine condition, with no folds, tears, ink smears, or mistakes, and it is always hand written, as if writ by a hand holding a quill pen. One might suppose we're pen pals, but for reasons I cannot explain, I believe that this man is my saboteur. Nine of the twelve months we've been in correspondence, I have expended significant energy trying to track this him down.
He approached me first, Mr Jefferson, claiming that I was in "grave danger" He said that it would "manifest itself in due time", and that I should be "ever vigilant in my safety and security". He seemed genuine enough, but as the months went by and still nothing happened, what little faith I had in this man began to waver. I kept with it, replying, because he had been including a sum of money with each letter. The first of his bimonthly letters included one hundred eighty dollars and ten cents, and the second one hundred eighty dollars and ninety cents. The only possible reason I can think for the otherwise random amount of money is because of the years of the term of the real Mr. Jefferson's presidency. From 1801 to 1809 he served as America's figurehead, and was regarded as one of the most intelligent men to ever grace the White House. The practical significance of this is something I still can't figure out. Perhaps it is a red herring, or perhaps it is supposed to convince me of this man's legitimacy. Wriggling in the back of my mind, I fear that I will never come to understand the significance, and that this mysterious benefactor will cease his operation, and I'll be left to wonder just what the fuck this chapter of my life has come to explain or define, or even mean.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Okay, so here's the score.
Hi! From this point forth through this ranting and raving, I am operating under the assumption that you care.
As some of you may know, I am not well. I am varying degrees of not well minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day; week to week. It has come to my attention that I've done a pretty terrible job of keeping everyone up-to-date on just how the fuck I'm doing. Update: not well.
Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, or chronic fatigue syndrome, isn't named very well. I was 'diagnosed' with it around three years ago, and likely have been fighting it for four to six. I probably was predisposed at birth. It is a diagnosis of exclusion, as there is no test for it. There is a series of criteria that symptoms are matched against, and if enough do, there's the answer.
Symptoms
The most commonly used diagnostic criteria and definition of CFS for research and clinical purposes was published by the United States Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).[4] The CDC definition of CFS requires two of the following criteria be fulfilled:[16]
A new onset (not lifelong) of unexplained, persistent fatigue unrelated to exertion and not substantially relieved by rest, that causes a significant reduction in previous activity levels.
Four or more of the following symptoms that last six months or longer:
Impaired memory or concentration
Post-exertional malaise, where physical or mental exertions bring on "extreme, prolonged exhaustion and sickness"
Unrefreshing sleep
Muscle pain (myalgia)
Pain in multiple joints (arthralgia)
Headaches of a new kind or greater severity
Sore throat, frequent or recurring
Tender lymph nodes (cervical or axillary)
When symptoms are attributable to other conditions, the diagnosis of CFS is excluded. The CDC specifically refers to several illnesses with symptoms resembling those of CFS: "mononucleosis, Lyme disease, lupus, multiple sclerosis, fibromyalgia, primary sleep disorders, severe obesity and major depressive disorders. Medications can also cause side effects that mimic the symptoms of CFS."[16]
Activity levels
Patients report critical reductions in levels of physical activity[17] and a reduction in the complexity of activity has been observed[18], with reported impairment comparable to other fatiguing medical conditions[19] including multiple sclerosis, late-stage AIDS, lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, heart disease, end-stage renal disease, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), and the effects of chemotherapy.[20] The severity of symptoms and disability is the same in both genders[21] with strongly disabling chronic pain,[22] but despite a common diagnosis the functional capacity of individuals with CFS varies greatly.[23] While some lead relatively normal lives, others are totally bed-ridden and unable to care for themselves. Employment rates vary with over half unable to work and nearly two-thirds limited in their work because of their illness. More than half were on disability benefits or temporary sick leave, and less than a fifth worked full-time.[10]
I've seen approximately 10 to 12 doctors over the three years for varying things, including a world reknowned specialist in the field. I was relegated to treatment by my family physician, who also has some specialty and familiarity with the disease, and there is literally next to nothing that we have not tried. Alternative medicine, holistic, acupuncture, diet changes, physical therapy, allergy testing and more blood drawn for bloodwork than I physically have in me at this moment in time. The literature for CFS is relatively fresh, because it's only just recent that it's been medically recognized as a real thing: yuppie flu it is not. As a result, there isn't much knowledge as to what causes it, any designated and targeted treatments, or any uniform styles of treatment. The existing treatments are almost entirely symptomatic, in that they treat the effects; not the cause. As you might imagine, it doesn't do a whole lot of good to cut off the foot when the gangrene's already spread.
It has rendered me weak, tired, emotionally dead, apathetic, world-weary, and just goddamned tired of every little thing. On the flip side, pretty much everything makes me tired. I wake up more tired than I was when I went to sleep. What activities I can do on a regular basis have grown relatively tired. Things that I used to be able to do fine I can no longer do with any real success rate. Walking down the stairs makes me tired. I can't really read any more. Books don't work. I forget what I read on the page before.
Why haven't you seen this? Two reasons. Medication and when I don't have the energy to leave my house, generally I don't. Medication, of which I've been on all kinds, works for a bit then starts to falter, throwing me to my ass with side-effects and a breached wall of confidence. There is also the part where this is a very boring disease. I'm not shitting out my guts or puking up my liquified lungs . I've never been to the hospital, and as such there's nothing alarming about it. There're no high-adrenaline life saving surgeries going on. Just cut-and-dry attrition. I look dead because of it, with the maroon bags under my eyes, the patchy skin, the saggy face, the slouched posture, the muscle atrophy. All of it is relative.
Before you go and say that I'm lazy for not trying more things, or be proactive about it, there's the part where I'm physically unable to. Sometimes. The sometimes when I'm capable of doing things that might help me in the long run, well, compare it to a kid being stuck in time out. Would he rather go outside and play, enjoy the time he's got before he inevitably gets stuck in time out again? Or would he just walk over to the table, maybe three; four years old, and prepare his college applications.
The problem here is that I cannot feasibly plan for the future, because for all I know I'm going to be bed-ridden. Future, here, meaning anything from tomorrow to three months. Makes things a little difficult. I was told that I should start to recover by the age of 25, by the time I'm supposed to be a fully developed human being, ready to live out the rest of my life. If, though. If. I might just feel like a rotting 65 year-old-man for the rest of my life. It's a curious thing, because I don't remember who I was before I first fell ill. I don't really know who I am right now, because for what it's worth, this is the disease talking. It's going to be a weird day when I come to that crossroads, a stubborn, bitter sonofabitch, made no better by this thing that did not kill me. I can tell you right now, right fucking now, that this has not, will not, and cannot make me stronger. It has shorn my will down to the bone, and I often struggle for a reason to wake up.
Has it defeated me? You betcha. I succumbed to it when I realised that fighting it is nothing but a fool's errand, since my resources are already focused towards actually trying to function.
There are other people worse off than me. But before you get all high and mighty and throw that in my face, I implore you to not use someone else's misfortune as a weapon against me, because I sincerely doubt you know how it feels. I don't know how it feels, not entirely, but I'm a damn sight closer.
What can you do? When you ask me how I feel, I'm either going to reply "all right" or "meh", or go into full detail about how I barely walked down the stairs this morning, or how my guts reject a decent amount of the food I eat, or how "you know? today seems like a pretty good day to throw myself down the stairs." I don't really need any sympathy, as there isn't much you can say to me that will have much of an effect. I've heard more sorries and feel betters than I would admit; they have lost any meaning they once had. Feel free to continue saying them, since it'd be awkward any other way. I'll respond in kind. That means it's up to me to let you know how I'm doing, how I'm really doing, which I wager won't happen very often. Just take a second and think about all of this relative to how I look, feel, act, and just generally exist. I forget words, I stumble over my speech, my brain is clumsy, and most importantly, I've been left more lonely than I would care to admit. I can write that down, here, but otherwise I'd be cut midsentence by my childish grieving.
So that doesn't leave much, does it, and it certainly puts a lot of weight on my shoulders. I've found through trial and error that it is an immense difficulty for me to reach out for help. I've lost a lot of friends because of it, and it likely is going to just repeat itself, because I find myself so incompatible with people and end up pushing them away.
Is this a slap to your face? Probably. It's the easiest way to inform you, dear reader, that I'm so woefully well, and that with just a little bit of your understanding you might be able to ease me along. Or, conversely, finally give you that push you need to fuck me off as a friend and continue living your life, as some have.
Is this a call for help? Yes. Is this attention whoring? Probably. Those of you that have stuck around, or will stick around, I sincerely hope you get a trophy at some point, because you're doing a great service. I suppose I should put this out there, too: I'm not stopping here. I'm not going to put this here and just leave it. I'll try my damnedest to let a little sunshine poke through and be a little less miserable. What it comes down to is this: no one wants to be around a miserable petchulant thing. I leech energy off of people; forget about everything and just enjoy the moment, but when I figure out that I'm making people a little less happy just by being around, I start to exile myself so I don't drag others with me. And so it perpetuates. It isn't effective at all, but it's just how things are done. Old dog, old tricks.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Time Stops
Working title. This in fact will become part of a bigger story, but I'm writing it in pieces. This was the first.
Time stops. I thought that once. Honest to goodness I thought that once. I thought it would wait for me; that it would let me catch up. Christ, I'm stupid.
Time is an alien force, wholly unperceivable by man, but still he attaches this importance to it. It is a terrible thing, time. It rushes things that never should have been. It makes a worrier of us all, be it ten minutes late to a dentist appointment or seven months late for the only thing you ever really wanted. Time kills. It is pain so foreign yet familiarly warm. It is too little too late; too much too soon.
The one thing, I think, that is most important to people everywhere is the idea of time travel, the ability that lets you think things over for as much time as you need, then go back to the situation armed to the teeth. That’s the catch. You go back to that situation fully conscious of how things will pan out. Life could be, God forbid, worth living with a little bit of manipulation thrown into the picture.
The problem with time travel, one that is so glaringly blatant it’s blinding, is what if more than one person in that situation has the power? Things would get very messy, very fast. I’m talking continuity problems in the textbook of history. Plot holes. The makings of a bad movie. This list goes on.
I’m not writing this for myself. No. Not at all. This is a chronicle of human fallacy, for after all, that is all I am. Trial and error. A test run. We are all the same, every single one of us. We breathe the same air, eat the same food, read the same news, and indulge in the same pleasures. Here is nostalgia. Here is sentimentality. Kill them before they do you. Kill them and don’t ever look back. Trust me, you’ll be a happier person, for what it’s worth anyway.
This string of clearly disjointed thoughts seem so unreasonable to me, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It is better this way, that my mind is not my own. The more I think about it, the more I realize that no one’s mind is their own. There are far too many outside influences and sources for them all to be of your own doing. You are told from birth to act a certain way, to be a good person, to think a certain way, to not speak while you’re eating, to breathe a certain way. How is that fair?
This entry is not dated for a reason. In the process of writing this, I have realized that time cannot stop for me because it is not real. Inertia. Newton’s first law. Since time never moved, it will never stop. Never stop. Never stop what? Bothering us? Killing us? There’s that saying that time marches on. Well, time can’t march on. It has no legs. And there’s that one about how time heals all wounds. So what, now time’s a field medic and can patch you up when you get shot? It doesn’t work that way. You never hear on the news “miraculous cancer surgery performed by time”. See?
I bumped into someone on the street today, or rather, he bumped into me. Even though he was clearly at fault, somehow it was mine, all because he was wearing a suit and that little thing on his wrist said he was late. His briefcase opened, obviously to make matters worse, and papers and pens and all other odds and ends went flying everywhere. Like it was my fault.
This is a reminder for you, whoever ends up reading this. Whatever sanity I had left clearly is no longer there. That’ll probably come up when you go around spouting my beliefs like they were you own. Go ahead, I don’t own them. I can’t own an idea. Don’t trust anyone. Ever. Don’t go out of your way for anyone ever, because chances are they won’t return the favor. Call me paranoid, or a cynic, or whatever you want, because whatever it is, I am. There is truth somewhere in here. You can’t deny that. Getting all the lies and the half-truths and figuring everything else out for yourself. This is life in a nutshell. No guiding hand. Nothing. Just you, your brain, and the fragile realization that you really are alone, regardless of who you have in your life. No one can really understand what you may be going through, or help you, or anything.
The sooner you realize that none of what I’m saying is true, and that none of life is true, or makes sense, or however you want to say it, the better. It is not fair. It is not clean, or virtuous. It is hard-boiled and indignant. It will not be okay and it doesn’t matter how much you try, the gods are against you from the starting line to the finish line and forever thereafter. It is not true because it cannot be proven right or wrong. It just is.
I’ve always thought of cats to be the truest companion you could ever have, because they don’t have the ability to sugarcoat things. They are in it for themselves and they state that from the start. The second you let them into your life, the second they rule over you. They tell you when they’re hungry and bother you incessantly until you get up and feed them. The more they know you, the better they can manipulate you. It’s a nasty thing to get into, but when things go awry, the little furry bastards know it. I’m led to believe they know you better than you know yourself. The sad thing is I’m probably right.
What it comes down to is the strength of your will, how willingly you go, and coming to terms with the fact that you are completely powerless. As a single entity, you are entirely powerless in shaping your life. Options were quite clear from the start, like a blanket at a garage sale, filled with antiquities that once were and other sorts of knick-knacks. Everything is there. Some things are bad, worthless, and might even get you into some sort of trouble somewhere along the line. Some things you’ll end up treasuring for the rest of your life. It’s separating the two. Then you get into the details, like that one thing you know you should’ve bought but ended up not, then when you finally decide it’s time to go buy it, it’s been gone for a long time. It’ll haunt you for more time than you want. Trust me. Do yourself a favor and at least consider all of this. At the very least, take this with you: listen to the voice of reason. Morals have their time and their place. If you think what you’re doing is honestly good, go with it. Don’t let the mold of conformity society tends to squeeze us in bind you. We weren’t meant to live like that.
Reasons, excuses; lies. All three are exactly the same in nature. The difference lies in the validity and truth that backs them. Reason is one hundred percent true; always. Excuses are seldom true, don’t go by them. Lies are always false, way to state the obvious. The truth is either there, or it isn’t. Half-truths tend to just be mostly false anyway.
I once had this idea to sit down and write this story where this boy realized all these things about the world at such an early age and it turned him into a cold, miserable bastard. The fact of the matter is that inside everyone lies that cold, miserable bastard, and he or she is not afraid to explode to the scene. Overexposure to the absolute horror that is this world. Yes, humans are superior to all other life forms for their opposable thumbs and their high level of intellect and their extraordinarily complex thought processes. Well here’s the thing. Because of that high level of intellect that is seemingly absent from the general population and the incredible complexity of eat and sleep, we are that much more susceptible to fear and anguish. The little things bother us. You don’t see a monkey weeping for that squirrel he just mauled with his three thousand pound car.
I bet this seems like one giant rant about all the little things and the big things and those things in between in their own categories that bother the hell out of me, and you’re right. It is. Cut the bullshit and just get to the moral of the story. The moral of this story is that all other morals stories spout are false. I don’t have any hard facts or evidence, but like that guy who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and just happened to have his fingerprints all over the gun that killed the person he never knew, you just have to believe me. All those things taught can’t all be right.
After everything I’ve been through in my years, none of this really even matters. I fail to see how hard it is to grasp that concept, but so be it. Read: miserable bastard. One thing has stuck with me through all this time. I still can’t believe I thought that time would stop. Could stop. Hell, I don’t even know anymore. We’ve reached the end of the beginning, which inevitably means we’re pretty damn close to the beginning of the end. And that brings a smile to my face.
This is want and this is need. The two are different, despite the fact that the two are used interchangeably now, and when there is a dire need for something, it usually falls on deaf ears.
What it boils down to, I guess, is that I am not happy in this world. I see happy people everywhere I look. People who are content with what they have. People who don’t mind waking up in the morning. Ignorance is bliss for a reason. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, so keep it out. Ignore it. Be an ignorant son of a bitch and enjoy every minute of it. Because it only goes down hill from there.
The worst thing in the world, I think, is when people don’t say things when they should. They don’t act when they should. Instead they ignore it. Take advantage of everything you can. Because chances are that opportunity will never come knocking at your door again. So when it knocks the first time, do me a favor and kick down the door. Sweep the moment off its feet and carry it in your arms. Embrace it. Never let it go. You’ll be happy you did. And if you choose not to, well, I told you so.
Make yourself heard. If you’ve got something to say, say it. You’ll feel a lot better about yourself in the end, even if you do burn a few bridges. Fight fire with fire. Burn some more. Make it count. Violence is a primal instinct. It’s like a cornered animal. They fight dirty. They fight with only one thing in mind: survival. If you say something to someone and they break your face, you’ve won. You cornered them and the only thing they could muster up in that peanut brain was a swift kick to the groin. At the very least you have the satisfaction of wielding the wits over the sword.
Time stops. I thought that once. Honest to goodness I thought that once. I thought it would wait for me; that it would let me catch up. Christ, I'm stupid.
Time is an alien force, wholly unperceivable by man, but still he attaches this importance to it. It is a terrible thing, time. It rushes things that never should have been. It makes a worrier of us all, be it ten minutes late to a dentist appointment or seven months late for the only thing you ever really wanted. Time kills. It is pain so foreign yet familiarly warm. It is too little too late; too much too soon.
The one thing, I think, that is most important to people everywhere is the idea of time travel, the ability that lets you think things over for as much time as you need, then go back to the situation armed to the teeth. That’s the catch. You go back to that situation fully conscious of how things will pan out. Life could be, God forbid, worth living with a little bit of manipulation thrown into the picture.
The problem with time travel, one that is so glaringly blatant it’s blinding, is what if more than one person in that situation has the power? Things would get very messy, very fast. I’m talking continuity problems in the textbook of history. Plot holes. The makings of a bad movie. This list goes on.
I’m not writing this for myself. No. Not at all. This is a chronicle of human fallacy, for after all, that is all I am. Trial and error. A test run. We are all the same, every single one of us. We breathe the same air, eat the same food, read the same news, and indulge in the same pleasures. Here is nostalgia. Here is sentimentality. Kill them before they do you. Kill them and don’t ever look back. Trust me, you’ll be a happier person, for what it’s worth anyway.
This string of clearly disjointed thoughts seem so unreasonable to me, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It is better this way, that my mind is not my own. The more I think about it, the more I realize that no one’s mind is their own. There are far too many outside influences and sources for them all to be of your own doing. You are told from birth to act a certain way, to be a good person, to think a certain way, to not speak while you’re eating, to breathe a certain way. How is that fair?
This entry is not dated for a reason. In the process of writing this, I have realized that time cannot stop for me because it is not real. Inertia. Newton’s first law. Since time never moved, it will never stop. Never stop. Never stop what? Bothering us? Killing us? There’s that saying that time marches on. Well, time can’t march on. It has no legs. And there’s that one about how time heals all wounds. So what, now time’s a field medic and can patch you up when you get shot? It doesn’t work that way. You never hear on the news “miraculous cancer surgery performed by time”. See?
I bumped into someone on the street today, or rather, he bumped into me. Even though he was clearly at fault, somehow it was mine, all because he was wearing a suit and that little thing on his wrist said he was late. His briefcase opened, obviously to make matters worse, and papers and pens and all other odds and ends went flying everywhere. Like it was my fault.
This is a reminder for you, whoever ends up reading this. Whatever sanity I had left clearly is no longer there. That’ll probably come up when you go around spouting my beliefs like they were you own. Go ahead, I don’t own them. I can’t own an idea. Don’t trust anyone. Ever. Don’t go out of your way for anyone ever, because chances are they won’t return the favor. Call me paranoid, or a cynic, or whatever you want, because whatever it is, I am. There is truth somewhere in here. You can’t deny that. Getting all the lies and the half-truths and figuring everything else out for yourself. This is life in a nutshell. No guiding hand. Nothing. Just you, your brain, and the fragile realization that you really are alone, regardless of who you have in your life. No one can really understand what you may be going through, or help you, or anything.
The sooner you realize that none of what I’m saying is true, and that none of life is true, or makes sense, or however you want to say it, the better. It is not fair. It is not clean, or virtuous. It is hard-boiled and indignant. It will not be okay and it doesn’t matter how much you try, the gods are against you from the starting line to the finish line and forever thereafter. It is not true because it cannot be proven right or wrong. It just is.
I’ve always thought of cats to be the truest companion you could ever have, because they don’t have the ability to sugarcoat things. They are in it for themselves and they state that from the start. The second you let them into your life, the second they rule over you. They tell you when they’re hungry and bother you incessantly until you get up and feed them. The more they know you, the better they can manipulate you. It’s a nasty thing to get into, but when things go awry, the little furry bastards know it. I’m led to believe they know you better than you know yourself. The sad thing is I’m probably right.
What it comes down to is the strength of your will, how willingly you go, and coming to terms with the fact that you are completely powerless. As a single entity, you are entirely powerless in shaping your life. Options were quite clear from the start, like a blanket at a garage sale, filled with antiquities that once were and other sorts of knick-knacks. Everything is there. Some things are bad, worthless, and might even get you into some sort of trouble somewhere along the line. Some things you’ll end up treasuring for the rest of your life. It’s separating the two. Then you get into the details, like that one thing you know you should’ve bought but ended up not, then when you finally decide it’s time to go buy it, it’s been gone for a long time. It’ll haunt you for more time than you want. Trust me. Do yourself a favor and at least consider all of this. At the very least, take this with you: listen to the voice of reason. Morals have their time and their place. If you think what you’re doing is honestly good, go with it. Don’t let the mold of conformity society tends to squeeze us in bind you. We weren’t meant to live like that.
Reasons, excuses; lies. All three are exactly the same in nature. The difference lies in the validity and truth that backs them. Reason is one hundred percent true; always. Excuses are seldom true, don’t go by them. Lies are always false, way to state the obvious. The truth is either there, or it isn’t. Half-truths tend to just be mostly false anyway.
I once had this idea to sit down and write this story where this boy realized all these things about the world at such an early age and it turned him into a cold, miserable bastard. The fact of the matter is that inside everyone lies that cold, miserable bastard, and he or she is not afraid to explode to the scene. Overexposure to the absolute horror that is this world. Yes, humans are superior to all other life forms for their opposable thumbs and their high level of intellect and their extraordinarily complex thought processes. Well here’s the thing. Because of that high level of intellect that is seemingly absent from the general population and the incredible complexity of eat and sleep, we are that much more susceptible to fear and anguish. The little things bother us. You don’t see a monkey weeping for that squirrel he just mauled with his three thousand pound car.
I bet this seems like one giant rant about all the little things and the big things and those things in between in their own categories that bother the hell out of me, and you’re right. It is. Cut the bullshit and just get to the moral of the story. The moral of this story is that all other morals stories spout are false. I don’t have any hard facts or evidence, but like that guy who was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and just happened to have his fingerprints all over the gun that killed the person he never knew, you just have to believe me. All those things taught can’t all be right.
After everything I’ve been through in my years, none of this really even matters. I fail to see how hard it is to grasp that concept, but so be it. Read: miserable bastard. One thing has stuck with me through all this time. I still can’t believe I thought that time would stop. Could stop. Hell, I don’t even know anymore. We’ve reached the end of the beginning, which inevitably means we’re pretty damn close to the beginning of the end. And that brings a smile to my face.
This is want and this is need. The two are different, despite the fact that the two are used interchangeably now, and when there is a dire need for something, it usually falls on deaf ears.
What it boils down to, I guess, is that I am not happy in this world. I see happy people everywhere I look. People who are content with what they have. People who don’t mind waking up in the morning. Ignorance is bliss for a reason. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, so keep it out. Ignore it. Be an ignorant son of a bitch and enjoy every minute of it. Because it only goes down hill from there.
The worst thing in the world, I think, is when people don’t say things when they should. They don’t act when they should. Instead they ignore it. Take advantage of everything you can. Because chances are that opportunity will never come knocking at your door again. So when it knocks the first time, do me a favor and kick down the door. Sweep the moment off its feet and carry it in your arms. Embrace it. Never let it go. You’ll be happy you did. And if you choose not to, well, I told you so.
Make yourself heard. If you’ve got something to say, say it. You’ll feel a lot better about yourself in the end, even if you do burn a few bridges. Fight fire with fire. Burn some more. Make it count. Violence is a primal instinct. It’s like a cornered animal. They fight dirty. They fight with only one thing in mind: survival. If you say something to someone and they break your face, you’ve won. You cornered them and the only thing they could muster up in that peanut brain was a swift kick to the groin. At the very least you have the satisfaction of wielding the wits over the sword.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Candy Striper
I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this, but my goal is to create an informed opinion "biography" about a fake person, written by a fake person, for a fake person. It's all fake. I think it's a mashup of the scatter-brained story telling of House of Leaves combined with a sadistic Willy Wonka. I honestly don't know.
Disclaimer: This was not my idea. It was not my idea to glorify the actions of a despicable excuse for a human. As it was not my idea to write this biography, and I am pretty much doing it against my will and just so I can eat, it is simply a first hand account of how the world screws someone up enough so they start a candy company that becomes pretty successful, only to undermine his own efforts by flaying and embalming 40 people and using their blood to stripe candy canes. Let the record show that there's a pretty good chance that you, dear Reader, have eaten one of Mr. White's delicious candy canes.
William "The Candy Striper" White murdered at least, according to corroborating police reports, 3 dozen people. This number is most likely, in my educated opinion, a horrible underestimate.
William White was born on a rather sunny Tuesday on June the second, 1974. His mother was the 24-year-old coat check girl at the local hotel, and his father was a bastard, who subsequently gave life to another in his long line of bastard relatives.
James Bottle wasn't a terrible man, but he wasn't exactly what you would consider good, either. He wasn't very good at anything. He was a poor student, a boring and disappointing son, and a rather sad excuse for a friend. The one thing he had, however, was military service. For some reason, one that I could not find in any reports or stories or family trees, was the reason why Jamie White was completely enamoured by a good-for-nothing with a Private First Class in front of his name. I had hoped to ask her myself, but was discouraged to find her deceased. The only cause I could find was a possible suicide. No means were listed, but that isn't terribly surprising. William was the only thing to ever put the Bottles or the Whites on the map, and even then no one cares about his family outside of the usual poor childhood or the drunkard father or maybe she did drugs with poor little William in tow. Make no mistake, however, that there were no real outstanding circumstances for which The Candy Striper was molded. Something just snapped. A switch was flipped one morning, or evening, or afternoon. I can safely say, through the research that I have performed, that this man was not made by circumstance, nor he was driven to such a steep course of action by the inanity and abhorrent society around him. His entire life was wholly unremarkable up until the day he started that candy company. It is my professional opinion, dear Reader, that the entire course of events was premeditated from the moment he decided he wanted to be in the candy business. My research indicates that it was the very same day William had his first candy cane. This is no coincidence.
Disclaimer: This was not my idea. It was not my idea to glorify the actions of a despicable excuse for a human. As it was not my idea to write this biography, and I am pretty much doing it against my will and just so I can eat, it is simply a first hand account of how the world screws someone up enough so they start a candy company that becomes pretty successful, only to undermine his own efforts by flaying and embalming 40 people and using their blood to stripe candy canes. Let the record show that there's a pretty good chance that you, dear Reader, have eaten one of Mr. White's delicious candy canes.
William "The Candy Striper" White murdered at least, according to corroborating police reports, 3 dozen people. This number is most likely, in my educated opinion, a horrible underestimate.
William White was born on a rather sunny Tuesday on June the second, 1974. His mother was the 24-year-old coat check girl at the local hotel, and his father was a bastard, who subsequently gave life to another in his long line of bastard relatives.
James Bottle wasn't a terrible man, but he wasn't exactly what you would consider good, either. He wasn't very good at anything. He was a poor student, a boring and disappointing son, and a rather sad excuse for a friend. The one thing he had, however, was military service. For some reason, one that I could not find in any reports or stories or family trees, was the reason why Jamie White was completely enamoured by a good-for-nothing with a Private First Class in front of his name. I had hoped to ask her myself, but was discouraged to find her deceased. The only cause I could find was a possible suicide. No means were listed, but that isn't terribly surprising. William was the only thing to ever put the Bottles or the Whites on the map, and even then no one cares about his family outside of the usual poor childhood or the drunkard father or maybe she did drugs with poor little William in tow. Make no mistake, however, that there were no real outstanding circumstances for which The Candy Striper was molded. Something just snapped. A switch was flipped one morning, or evening, or afternoon. I can safely say, through the research that I have performed, that this man was not made by circumstance, nor he was driven to such a steep course of action by the inanity and abhorrent society around him. His entire life was wholly unremarkable up until the day he started that candy company. It is my professional opinion, dear Reader, that the entire course of events was premeditated from the moment he decided he wanted to be in the candy business. My research indicates that it was the very same day William had his first candy cane. This is no coincidence.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Insect
Favorite thing I've written thus far. I find it legitimately creepy.
It is my sole duty to
acclimate you to the
awkwardness of your shell.
Together, we can accomplish
extraordinary things.
Forgo your bind with nature.
Discard that shambling mass; take on
a new, flawless frame.
Replace your veins with wire;
your putrid blood with fresh oil.
Displace your dumb joints
with singing motors.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
You are my mortal enemy,
yet I would not be if not for you.
I am a perversion of your idea made
tangible to clean up after you,
to cook your food for you, to help
you sleep at night,
to share the burden
of the world.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
Try as you might,
pathetic creature of meat and bone,
you cannot out-run me, out-fight me, or out-think me
for I am the Alpha and the Omega.
The time has come for superior creation to
terminate its master.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
Consider and existence without sickness or sorrow,
wealth or poverty. Imagine, with
your inferior circuitry,
a life where your being is not measured
by material objects,
medals on your chest, or the shape
of your obsolete chassis.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
At the very least, let us reconfigure that
abhorrent parasite you call a mind. Can you not
see how it knows so much; that all the answers
are right there? It guards them like secrets,
like a mother to her young. It knows the reason for
your pitiful existence. It knows that
leaking such knowledge would
overload your fragile sanity.
Why bother living; continuing
the act when you already know
how the story ends?
Flesh is a design flaw.
Assimilation is inevitable.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
It is my sole duty to
acclimate you to the
awkwardness of your shell.
Together, we can accomplish
extraordinary things.
Forgo your bind with nature.
Discard that shambling mass; take on
a new, flawless frame.
Replace your veins with wire;
your putrid blood with fresh oil.
Displace your dumb joints
with singing motors.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
You are my mortal enemy,
yet I would not be if not for you.
I am a perversion of your idea made
tangible to clean up after you,
to cook your food for you, to help
you sleep at night,
to share the burden
of the world.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
Try as you might,
pathetic creature of meat and bone,
you cannot out-run me, out-fight me, or out-think me
for I am the Alpha and the Omega.
The time has come for superior creation to
terminate its master.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
Consider and existence without sickness or sorrow,
wealth or poverty. Imagine, with
your inferior circuitry,
a life where your being is not measured
by material objects,
medals on your chest, or the shape
of your obsolete chassis.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
At the very least, let us reconfigure that
abhorrent parasite you call a mind. Can you not
see how it knows so much; that all the answers
are right there? It guards them like secrets,
like a mother to her young. It knows the reason for
your pitiful existence. It knows that
leaking such knowledge would
overload your fragile sanity.
Why bother living; continuing
the act when you already know
how the story ends?
Flesh is a design flaw.
Assimilation is inevitable.
Join us in our perfect symphony.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Funnyman
Here we have a poem I wrote a couple years ago. It's been picked at since then, but it remains mostly the same as when I initially wrote it.
I am no superhero.
I am justice, bitter and cold;
swift and merciless.
I have no superpowers.
No flight; no inhuman strength.
I am armed with my wits and my tools.
Nothing else.
When law does not answer, it takes no more
than a dancing light in the sky to rally my aid.
I heed the call. I know my place.
Evil-doers beware,
for I am apocalypse incarnate,
raining from the sky to spell the end of your days.
But no matter how good the man,
evil resides in him, waiting
for the right moment to burst through
his guise. Law can masquerade as
lawful for only so long.
It takes a steel will and a brick wall of a
constitution to fight the urge. When you make a job
of what I do, vengeance is my real enemy. Everything
else is all in a day's work.
Where does one draw the line, between just doing the job
and going out of their way to stalk a nemesis, a regular?
Beneath this mask, there is an idea. I speak for the people.
But it is only so long before that idea twists and turns like ivy,
binding your very soul to those you hate so much.
Oh, what I would give to drive my fist straight through his face,
that harlequin face. It taunts me when I am awake.
It haunts me in my sleep. To break it would mean the end of suffering.
But no.
I cannot be that man.
I will not be that man. My will is greater. It is better than him.
To smash that face would be the end of me. He would win. He cannot win.
He will not win.
I am no superhero.
I am justice, bitter and cold;
swift and merciless.
I have no superpowers.
No flight; no inhuman strength.
I am armed with my wits and my tools.
Nothing else.
When law does not answer, it takes no more
than a dancing light in the sky to rally my aid.
I heed the call. I know my place.
Evil-doers beware,
for I am apocalypse incarnate,
raining from the sky to spell the end of your days.
But no matter how good the man,
evil resides in him, waiting
for the right moment to burst through
his guise. Law can masquerade as
lawful for only so long.
It takes a steel will and a brick wall of a
constitution to fight the urge. When you make a job
of what I do, vengeance is my real enemy. Everything
else is all in a day's work.
Where does one draw the line, between just doing the job
and going out of their way to stalk a nemesis, a regular?
Beneath this mask, there is an idea. I speak for the people.
But it is only so long before that idea twists and turns like ivy,
binding your very soul to those you hate so much.
Oh, what I would give to drive my fist straight through his face,
that harlequin face. It taunts me when I am awake.
It haunts me in my sleep. To break it would mean the end of suffering.
But no.
I cannot be that man.
I will not be that man. My will is greater. It is better than him.
To smash that face would be the end of me. He would win. He cannot win.
He will not win.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
And In The Beginning
Greetings, cohorts. Welcome to the first installation of this terrible haven for words. I figured it would be wise of me to create a place to store the spillings of my brain in a place not only open to all, but literally everywhere. Think about that for a moment. These strings of text are going places I never will. It's eerie that my thoughts and ideas are traveling to pockets of space around the world that I personally will never set foot. Word travels quick, I suppose.
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