A strange feeling is confusion; anger; guilt; hopelessness; despair; apathy. Empty. Wrong. This is not how you feel. This is how you react. This is not the case. This is the face. Where do I go, love? Why am I there?
A puppy looks at me. A puppy is interested in me. It comes to me and wants to get right in my face with its soft and cold puppy nose. Sniff, sniff, sniff. Curious whiskers gently glide across my face and mouth. Oh puppy! You are so close to me. Do you like me?
“No”
It’s not me puppy wants. It’s the smell of ranch dressing and white bread in the corners of my mouth and in my beard. The hunt is on. What else do I have there? Chicken? Cheddar cheese? OMG, is that bacon? Puppy won’t stop sniffing me. He’s right in my wanting little stupid desperate face. I can’t shoo puppy because he’s too cute and maybe he’s actually interested in immemorable friendship.
“Is that giardiniera? Nevermind”, says puppy.
Puppy lays back at the other end of the overpriced couch. Droplets of masticated rawhide spot puppy’s end of the davenport. Puppy farts at me and leaves a mistical gloom.
A strange feeling is lonely.
Alcohol is a wonderful drug in the right qualities. Numb and happy. Glum and nappy. Under the influence is a euphoria of melancholy. At the end of a bottle I find hope. Hope for another bottle.
At the end of a case I find sad. Not sadness, but sad. There it is. At the end of a linked list of hope is sad. The mind’s null. Go no further. I would like to sleep but I have not killed whatever hunger alcohol could not drown. The hunt is on.
A rambling saint once told me “Find a prosthetic god and you’ll find your fucking answer”. My question, “where ya headed to?”
Is it wrong to think this mind doesn’t belong to this body? Is it wrong to think that’s a stupidly retarded question? This mind is no more real than the atoms and universe it thinks it exists in; a micro and macro scale of beingness? It’s all contrived and yet all there is.
I have come to terms with death. It could come tomorrow. It could come now. It makes no difference. Yet, I used to be afraid. Seriously afraid. Wake up in the middle of the night with cold sweats afraid. Run around the bed and hyperventilate afraid. What a nightmare-ish hell of of unknowing death must be.
Dante’s depiction of hell, while visionary, certainly has never concerned me. To think there is a hellish place where I may know I am dead is to have died and gone to heaven. What scared me was not knowing I was dead. I’ve tried explaining this time and time again and I don’t think I ever really get it across. Many do not want to accept the lack of vision I am trying to impart.
When you die … nothing.
Really, there is nothing. Worse, you don’t even know there is nothing because there is no you in nothing. It’s nothing for fuck’s sake. Even better, Lawrence Krauss essentially describes the universe as a zero-sum game and can nearly prove it if not for all the theoretical this-and-that’s. Zero-sum … nothing. An infinite universe of universes with all this having happened at least once before us and will happen again with a lot of not this happening in between, before, and after.
Get married to that idea if you fucking like the idea of ‘til death do we part.
So, how do I get over that? Well, I realize that while in nothing there is no me, there is also no nightmare. The fucking nightmare is right here; right now.
Uh oh, wait. If this is a zero-sum game, then nothing is right now. Maybe I’m dead now. Well, fuck it. If I’m dead now, then death isn’t so bad I guess. Except, I have nightmares in nothing. Will I never escape the nightmare of nothing. How can a no thing frighten me? Unless, a no thing is a thing. Is nothing really something?
Can you imagine nothing? If you can, does that make nothing something or is it like never really being able to produce the color black since black is the absence of light? Space is black; right? The hunt is on.
Alcohol is a wonderful drug. You often times forget that you say something and then you say it again and it’s as funny as it was the first time you said it. If you’ve drunkened more, then it might even be funnier.
Syphilitic marinade. That is all.
Just when you think you’ve got it bad, life throws the IRS at you.
Writing. The toilets of our minds.
“Away”, says Adium about my desperately wanted conversationalist. Where did you go dear friend? I miss you already. Are you near? Are you coming back at all? Did you die?
OMG, are you dead for real? Did you get struck by some awkward but totally non-random meteor? Sink-hole? Pissed off prostitute looking for sadistic revenge? That is the worst and best kind of revenge.
You should never have done those things. Not that they were out of bounds or anything, but the ilprepared are … um … ilprepared. Were you ilprepared for the strategic vengeance that is being inflicted on you thus prohibiting you from prolonging our superficial conversation?
A death has occurred. It is this conversation. The corpse is stinky. It just lies there. The head doesn’t even move it’s so fucking bloated. Like a zeppelin I want to poke at it; because I like to do these things. I’m afraid it might pop, though. Fester. It does that.
I wonder how long I can stare at this screen without blinking.
Screensaver. Beer. Password. You are not there! You promised! Well, I daydreamed you promising. Is that wrong?
A pack of neo-luddites? Must be. You were attacked by juvenile luddites and they stole you away from your computer and the rest of your technologies. You were dragged down the stairs kicking and screaming because you could not bear leaving me hanging; especially with the pencil of thought hanging there; conversation interrupted. Gus interrupted. First flight, second flight, third flight, out the front doors with a bang against the locking lever … handle, whatever.
It must have taken a lot of luddites because you are not what we call, small. You are a large man of turgid anger. I imagine you were not taken willingly. They must have had ball-gags and chains with barbed hooks that enwrapped you and your oversized leather recliner.
Car? Is that a car? Yes it is. They have those? Not a nice one, I’ll bet. Just an Oldsmobile anti-fitted from a cop-car. Probably purchased at an auction. Don’t expect a radio, asshole. Where are they taking you?
A compound? In Pennsylvania? Well, maybe I can believe that. You will survive, I’m sure of it. You will get along just fine. You will learn to sew the fields and scam the tourists. What? Gypsies do that? Whose fucking daymare is this?
Anyways … what? You were just cooking something? Oh. I hope it was fucking good you prick.
If my pecker was two inches longer I’d be a porn star. Thank god.
My linked list is getting close to sad. Better pull out the big guns.
If I had severe emotional problems I would hope someone would reach out to me and try to help me get help. Little known fact: raccoons carry the Alzheimer virus.
I’ve seen bigger ears on a donkey. It’s true. Donkeys have big ears and a thickly furried coat and an apathetic attitude. They could care less. Horses, now, they’re too fucking high strung. If I were a betting man, I’d bet donkeys get high like every day. I mean totally stoned out of their gourds in the morning. They are too fucking calm and nonchalant about everything.
“Oh, you want to put that heavy satchel and tank on my back? Well, whatever. Let’s try it and see how far we get.”
Whereas the horse would say, “Oh please please please let me try! Wait … too big. Forget it! Wait … I want to love you. I want you to like me. I am so confused :(”
Horses have mental disabilities. I mean, they want to please humans. Humans are insane. Humans are selfish. Humans will shit in your mouth and ask for a dollar.
Donkeys got it right. They don’t need us. Horses must be in pain.
Sorry, horse.
If religion was an ad agency it’d be obvious, right? I mean, if it was obvious religion would:
- honestly proclaim that competitors are separate and inadequate
- demand loyalty through contractual agreements
- track unique and repeat visitors
- send newsletters (probably subscribed to via an opt-out program)
- baptize me in a ring of fire, a river of dirty water, or bathtub of chicken + goat blood
- routinely try to spread their message through televised submissions
- try to collect income from its followers at a fixed and agreed upon rate
Since religions don’t do any of these things, they are clearly not ad agencies. Or military branches. Or governments. Or political parties.
When alcohol no longer kicks your ass … then what?
If I was a whore, I wouldn’t do dirty stuff.
If I was a random thought, acne pilgrimage.
I once repeated the popular words of NIN via Twitter “God is dead and no one cares”. Turns out someone cared. Well, they cared about me saying so and via Twitter and where they had the option of ignoring it or not. They didn’t ignore it. I didn’t apologize … I think.
Did or did not, I kind of think they are an asshole for caring. Seriously, who cares what I say? Agree or not, who actually cares? Why? I could say the pope is a slut … so? What if he is or is not?
It reminds me of the emotions stirred through a drawing of Mohammed by a non-muslim; without the killings or other violent acts. Really, why should a christian reach out to me should I say something that might be negative and might remind them of their religion? For fuck’s sake, I could have meant some other god. I just said, “God is dead”.
Fuck off over-zealous and righteous christians. Go find your place in the universe. It’s not in my heart. It’s not in my head. I hold no priority for your weakness of mind. I am Jack’s enraged sense of purpose. I am God’s nightmare … I don’t fucking care.
There would be no more fruit to pluck from the Tree of Knowledge if it were me there in place of Adam. Fuck Adam. Adam was a pussy. I would fucking harvest the Garden of Eden. It would be delicious. Bellies would be full. Authority would be upset. Angels would cry. Snakes would guffaw.
You’re all weak. If there’s a hell, I’ll see you there. The hunt is on.
Brindle, the cross-sectional coloring pattern of a Twix or the insides of a your large intestine.
Line 157: according to markdown.
DISCLAIMER: Nothing here is real. They are just random meanderings of the sub-conscious. A thought thought and path followed, just because. Take offense at the sake of your own sanity.
