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Savages   
Friday, October 19th, 2012
@ 12:58am
  I sat down at the bar with not much enthusiasm. I had intended to begin drinking heavily but my heart just wasn't in it. The bartender approached wearily with a half lit cigarette dangling between two red smears for lips.

"What can I get ya hunny?" she asked.

"I'll take a Shocktop with an orange. Thanks."

This was not my usual order. Infact, I slightly resented myself for ordering anything so tame as a beer, however I woke up drunk, and this afternoon was not the time to fuck with science. Liquor would make an appearance later, but first I had to let the rest of my body catch up to my rapidly worsening mental state.

She plunked the cold beer down in front of me and waddled off to attend to another middle aged customer. Fucking bitch. She forgot my orange.

This day just kept getting better and better. I woke up, stark naked in a drunken stupor with the urge to runaway. 'Do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up,' was my brain's immediate response. Instead I panicked. I glanced over at your slumbering silouette and I chose the coward's way out. Like an accused criminal I took flight. Packed a single bag full of posessions and got the fuck out of dodge, as they say.

I had no clear idea in my mind where I was going. Just going. The act of leaving was enough. I kept driving and chain smoking cigarette after cigarette in a mild state of lucidity while panic took hold like a slow moving poison. I could feel it seeping through, permeating my pores. How to make sense of it all? After some time I found myself in a familiar neighborhood. I knew this place. There was a bar over there, just around the corner. A real shithole of an establishment. The kind of dump that was so easily forgettable that it was in the midst of a profound identity crisis. Shithole bar by day, country honkytonk by night. It was located next door to a laundromat. We used to come here sometimes and do loads of clothes. Bicker over who's turn it was to put in the whites. Then go next door and catch a buzz. Comment on all the sad, lonely, phantoms who hung about thicker than than the stagnant cigarette smoke in the air. My luck had finally turned. It was just after two in the afternoon.

So here I was. When I left I had been gripped with an unspeakable feeling of cold. I awoke shivering in the dark. Gasping out, laboured breath, my skin slick with persperiation. Now I finally shook that wicked sleep from my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. The other decaying patrons were dressed in soiled wife beaters and flip flops. I was wearing a hoodie and a cat hat made of felt to stave off the cold. Jesus. It must have been close to 90 degrees outside.

I looked down at my beer and took a sip. 'Okay. Force your brain to work, you moron. You can do this,' I thought removing my hoodie.

A strange figure stood in the corner continuously pushing buttons on the jukebox. He seemed to be acting more out of reflex than any conscious deciscion making process. I watched him, sipping my beer, for close to five minutes. Just swaying back and forth, tapping the flashing screen like some esoteric starship captain hoping to hit warp drive. All the while the jukebox remained eerily silent. This unnatural quiet seemed to disturb noone but me.

I swallowed another swig of beer and took a moral inventory of the bar. Elderly alcoholic sipping vodka. Check. Blonde dyke with thick rimmed glasses slumped over an amstel light. Check. Old degenerate in a cowboy hat eyeing me strangely over a glass of whiskey. Double check.

"Hey Suzy," the cowboy called to the bartender. "Buy the kitty a shot on me. Look's like she could use it."

Suzy sauntered over and looked at me expectantly. "Well? What do ya want?"

"Oh," I said, coming to the realization that he was talking about me.

"I don't know. I guess I'll stick with beer for now if that's alright with him."

"Sure thing. It's your party hunny," she deadpaned.

I chugged the rest of my beer faster than advisable and slid over to an empty barstool by my new friend.

"Thanks. I think I'm going to need this," I said.

"No problem. You was lookin' like a stray cat just got run over by it's owner sittin' all the way over there by your lonesome like that." He tugged on my cat ear affectionately.

"No... Well I guess you could say that. I don't know really," I mutterred. Then abruptly, "Why does everything good in life go to shit, man?"

The Cowboy let out a good natured laugh and took another swig of whiskey.

"Depends on what you mean by shit, kitty cat."

I mulled it over for a few seconds. "Shit. Like, honest to god shit. Why can't anything just be OK for more than two seconds before giving up and imploding in on itself?"

The beer had reignited the vodka from last night and my brain began to feel heavy. His voice was low and measured, and when he spoke each word was given equal weight so that the combined effect was that of a father reading his child's favorite bedtime story.

"Everything goes to shit eventually. You're too young to really get that yet, but just wait. The longer ya stick around ya come to find out that ya gotta take the good with the bad. Sometimes ya think you're ridin' high and nuthin can touch ya, and BAM life'll come around and kick your sorry ass right back down again." He paused contemplatively. "Ain't life just a bitch sometimes?"

"No shit." I agreed.

I decided that if I was going to sulk in a bar I might as well sulk with someone else.

"Ever been in love?" I asked genuinely curious.

He offered me a cigarette and I obliged. Great. Marlboro Reds. These fucking cowboy killers were only ever effective against people who weren't actually cowboys.

"Sure," he said sucking the smoke through his yellowed teeth. "But then again, ain't everybody?"

I nodded.

"Somethin' tells me what you're really asking is have I ever had my heart broken?"

"Okay. Have you ever had your heart broken?" I echoed.

"Course I have," he said. "But bear in mind I've also broken a few hearts along the way." he laughed. It was a slow sort of refrain and before I knew it I had joined in. The sound of us two sad fucks chuckling in that near empty bar made me queasy. I felt like an accesory after the fact.

The dejected lesbian across the bar suddenly sat up and sneered at us through hazy frames. "Fuckers," she muttered and took another gulp of beer before slumping down again.

"Well... Which was worse?" I asked.

He let out a snort and two thick plumes of smoke bellowed from his nostrils. For one grotesque moment his face seemed to morph into that of a weathered Chinese dragon.

"Which do ya think? Gettin' my heart broke. Always is," he said.

"But why?" I pressed.

"Why the hell do ya think? Breakin' hearts is easy. Maybe the most natural thing there is in this world. Ya get close to someone. They want somethin' from ya but ya can't give it to 'em so ya leave. Shit. Been doin that with people my whole life. Reckon we all have. It's when ya finally meet someone that's s'posed to be different, when ya finally say 'Fuck it. I'm all in,' and they up and bail. That's the real fuckin' kick in the balls."

The ease of his narrative astounded me. He compartmentalized life into neatly labeled boxes. Matter of fact like. Black and white. And I, just an endless smear of grey across the bar. I didn't know what to say. He was right. But I didn't want him to be. I took another swig and continued this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion.

"But why? Isn't it the same?" I asked. "I mean objectively speaking hurting someone is just as bad as them hurting you. Shouldn't it all feel equally as shitty?"

"There's lots of things don't make sense in this world, kitty cat. Love's one of 'em," he said.

He seemed to reflect on this for a moment and we caught eyes. His face was creased like hastily contructed origami. A wilting swan. Folded over on itself until the creases were the only things left to notice. Forget the constuction beneath. The pale blue of his eyes were clouded with a kind of singular regret. Some kind of alcoholic wisdom or sun damage for all I knew. He leaned close so I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

"Ya want that shot now?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

I nodded sympathetically. Sure. Fuck it. Let's commiserate. He ordered two whiskeys neat and we slammed them back without so much as a cheers. The potion was vile, as whiskey always is, and it burned a hot trail all the way from my throat to my groin. I had decided to take the leap.

"I'm running away and I don't think I can go back." I confessed.

"Sure ya can. Ya can always go back so long as there's still somethin' left to go back to." He held his empty whiskey glass up to the light and turned it back and forth between two calloused fingers. "Whatever's got you so torn up inside that you're sittin at a dark bar on a sunny day with the likes of me must be somethin' worth fightin' for," he concluded.

"It is," I implored. "It is, and yet I think I am about to make the stupidest deciscion of my entire life." My head felt fuzzy and when I glanced down I detected a slight tremor in my right hand. The half lit cigarette felt clumsy and wrong. I watched the neon ember zig zag through the darkness. How to explain? "Ever turn the corner on a busy street and suddenly realize that you're utterly lost and have no fucking clue how to get back to where you started? I think i just made a wrong turn and now I'm fucked. Totally and unequivaclly fucked."

"That depends on how fast ya turned the corner and what you're leavin behind," he replied.

"I want to escape him. I wan't to escape myself. I love him and I wish he would leave. I don't know what to do." I felt forced, under an obscense and invisible pressure. A doomed defendent taking the stand for his own pitiful defence.

"Did he fuck around on ya?"

"No."

"Did he beat ya?"

"No."

"He got a job?"

"Sometimes."

"You ever caught him in a lie?"

"Only the minor variety."

"He a good man?"

"Yes."

"Well," he said solemnly proclaming his verdict, "Sounds like a good fella. Maybe it's you's the one with the screw loose."

"Fuck, that's what I was afraid of." I was quiet. Sad even.

Suddenly he began to talk in that low soothing voice of his.

"I had a girl once. She was a real knock out. Long blonde hair and 'bout the bluest eyes I ever seen. Man, and that laugh. It was like music, I shit you not. Sometimes she'd get to laughing so hard she gave herself a belly ache! She'd make me rub it till it felt better. Loved her since the first second I laid eyes on her. Used to drink whiskey some nights and read her stories. Cowboys and indians. That kind of shit. She liked to lay there, quiet at night. Real peaceful like. We was together five wonderful years. Rebecca was her name. Never really wanted to love her. Was kind of just one of those things you fall into. Once she stepped into my life I was fucked. Couldn't live with her, or without her. Finally started to accept that maybe lovin somethin' back wasn't such a bad thing after all. Unless of course they end up leavin'. That's right around the time she got sick." He flicked his ash on the bar and took a ragged breath.

"You know I used to try to make deals with god?" he laughed as if this point struck him as particularly humorous. "Imagine that. Drunk old slob like me tryin' to talk to some big man up in the sky and shit," He looked up at the ceiling and pressed his palms together in a mock prayer. "Pleadin my case and such," he shook his head. :What a crock of shit. But at the time I had so much love left to give her ya gotta understand." He put on a effected whiny high pitched tone, "'Please god. Please. I know I ain't nuthin but a dumb inbred sack o' shit. Please. Just let her live another year.' Honest to god. That's the line 'o shit I'd ask him. Then it started bein, 'Please just gimme another month.' Towards the end I'd ask for days, hours, minutes even."

He swigged the remainer of his whiskey and sparked another cigarette.

"But ya know, everyday same old story. Just kept gettin' worse. I knew she wasn't long for this earth so I stayed by her side every second I wasn't workin'. Fucking hospitals. Smell like death and feel worse then prison. Used to get pissed off at the doctors, the nurses, the whole lot of 'em. It was just too ugly a place for her to die, ya know? Someone so young and beautiful has no business diein' in a place like that. Bunch of sick old people coughin' and wheezin'. And her covered in all them wires and tubes. Makes me sick to even think about it," he spat reflexively on the floor of the bar. "But she did. Die that is. Yeah. And it was just the two of us there. Poor thing was too weak to even hold my hand. Just laid there like some kinda used to be spook. Used to be Rebecca. Used to be full of kisses. Used to be my little girl."

He paused and I inhaled sharply through my nose. My nostrils felt too small, like someone had sucked all of the air from the room.

"She was your daughter?" I asked.

"Yeah. Well you asked if I ever had my heart broken. She's the one who broke it. Not the kind of breakin' you meant huh? S'pose not... s'pose not. But I reckon it don't really matter who's doin' the breakin' cause after it's broke it hurts all the god damn same." He seemed to be looking through a hazy glass at something very far away. "What I mean to say is she's gone now for good. I ain't got nothin' left to go back to. Look around you kitty cat," he made a sweeping gesture across the bar, "most of these sad folk ain't got nothin' left to go home to either. Least you gotta choice in the matter. Seems to me that that makes you one leg up on us already, if ya catch my drift," he said.

And I did. He was poetry in motion. He was understanding and form and function to my wandering abyss. I felt better for having known him.

"Say, you want another shot?" he asked with a playful wink.

And I did. We continued in much the same fashion until late afternoon.

By the end of it I felt as though I was in stupor. One moment we were laughing, taking shots, and the next I turned to ask him for a cigarette and the cowboy was gone. I stumbled outside into the stark daylight, eyes half shut waiting for some kind of absolution. I spread my arms wide and looked up into the wild blush red sky. "Well?" I said, my voice soaked with accusation. "Well..?" I repeated.

No answer came. I stood there dumbfounded. I was stumbling to my car. There I slept. Who knows how long. Hours? Days? When I awoke and it was night. The faint sound of country music permeated the air.

I wandered back into the bar and found Suzy hunched over, rinsing out a dirty pint glass.

"Hey," I said brushing a wisp of sweaty hair beneath my cat hat, "Do you remember me? I was sitting with that cowboy. Yesterday I think. I didn't catch his name. We were drinking beer and whiskeys."

"Who Johnny?" she snorted. "That old drunk? Yeah, you was with him," she said.

"Have you seen him tonight?" I asked.

"No and I hope I don't. He ain't nothin' but a loney old SOB and a shitty tipper at that. Always tellin' his same old stories," she put down the still dirty pint and gestured at me with the soiled rag. "Billy said he once told him he was a gunner in Vietnam. Said he got his leg clean blown off," she snorted. "Seems to be walkin' just fine to me."

The conviction in her voice had me reeling. "What are you saying?"

"Just that he's full of stories. Same as the rest of 'em. Listen, you want a drink?"

"You don't understand. He told me something. He had a daughter and she got sick. Her name was Rebecca. She died," I said.

"Rebecca? Only Rebecca I know is sittin' right over there," she pointed at a used up looking woman with thick glasses in the darkened corner. The one I had orignally pegged as a lesbian. She was still sitting on the same stool. Slumped over a glass of beer, gently humming to herself.

I swallowed hard.

"Yeah they come in here together from time to time," she said. "Drink beer and sometimes whiskey. She takes what she can get, you know what i mean? Usually they're alright but sometimes they get to fightin' and I have to kick em out. Happens bout once or twice a week."

I nodded dumbly.

"Thanks Suzy," I mumbled. "I'll take a gin and tonic. Double." I motioned towards the slumped over mass that was Rebecca, "and freshen her drink, would you? Whatever she's having tonight is on me."

"You sure you wanna do that hunny? That one can run up a hell of a tab. Pretty sure she's got a death wish or somethin'."

"What are we savages?" I asked. "Pour the lady a goddamn drink."

I turned to the the old drunk beside me. "Got an extra cowboy killer?" He did.

The rest of that night was pure blackness.
 
     

(4 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
g----   
Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012
@ 7:26pm
  I once had the great misfortune of owning a broken typewriter whose keys got stuck churning and whirring the lonely letter g. No matter how I shook it or threw loose the gears that same resounding cog spun only g's. Grr grr grr it sputtered. The beast mocked me in it's bold black font. I grew to lust and despise the very sound of those cursed consonants. ggg. The way they rolled off the tongue so
sticky and sweet, stuck somewhere deep within that dark labyrinthine of a machine. Glug glug glug. Like a great outpouring of all my love letters left unwritten. ggg. A choking chorus of intimacy cut short by routine fate. My numerous melancholy truths destined never to reach you. Grindingggg. Just the fucking first letter of a name in an apology note that shall forever be rendered utterly useless.
 
     

(Sex?)

 
   
Monday, October 1st, 2012
@ 5:52pm
  its always the shittiest when you cant find an ashtray for your cigarette. you begin resting it on the edge of a cup or vase or some drunkards sleeve. normally this would be completely unacceptable, however you're drunk. so you continue. your last thought is a remembrance from sobriety past. normally you try not to think of anything. anything at all is preferable to vivid memories of shit you try to repress. it helps to have sad music surround you. the music soothes your soul. i like to revisit the past and pretend i'm a tourist in a strange city. i take a tour of our time together. it's vaguely foreign and an utter waste of time. i see your face, your back, the way you drank your coffee... always black with no sugar. i pretend this is the first time ive seen us. you're always fresh and full of the promise that i knew would one day decay. you lounge in your chair and share charming annicdotes. you plot ways to avoid your mother's phone calls. occasionally i annoy you to the point of distraction. i found some of my greatest humour in laughing at your idosyncracies. the way you froze up. the way you hated me for knowing you inside out and never being able to be gracious. when we danced and laughed i made a mental checklist for all your faults. which step would expose him for the fraud i'd already sentenced him to be? every word and movement was swept up in the air of artificiality. after some time i took a break and smoked another cigarette. you kept dancing by yourself but looked hurt and i grew sad as i blew smoke in your general direction. these are the moments i try to forget. but mostly i just need an ashtray.  
     

(2 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
after orgasm   
Thursday, March 12th, 2009
@ 2:38am
 

i watched a porn today of a lovely, vaguely Asian woman getting gang banged by 5 men. she made me like her almost instantly. her tits were real and glorious in their mediocrity. not even pretty for a porn star. they hung almost comically from her chest, deflated and sagging. her skin was a glowing bronze that traced the soft curves of her fleshy body. a beautiful sun kissed geisha.


the men asked pointed questions of her and she spoke slowly and deliberately. her vocabulary was impressive. it struck me as completely out of character for a porn actress. for example they asked her something to the effect of, "how do you feel about double penetration?" and she said without a shred of fabrication, "they're very intense, but i enjoy them." and throughout the film she would let out this melodic laugh of self awareness that made the questions seem that much more ridiculous. then the fucking began and it was strange to watch. she wasn't just another 2 dimensional prop like every other female porn star. this was somehow different, it felt intimate. it was like watching your friend or schoolmate get fingered under the bleachers. she made real people noises of pain and surprise. even the men involved seemed to understand that they had something very special indeed here, and so went out of their way to make things as comfortable for her as possible.


as i was watching this i began to feel very depressed. i was hating myself more and more with each progressive sexual act. i had put on some porn to try to motivate myself into exercising because sometimes an easy orgasm can be just the trick, but this was entirely not what i had expected. it was too real and raw. watching her made me feel like i was horribly violating someone in a way that i could never take back. like i had just stolen a tiny piece of her soul, and she probably didn't even fucking enjoy what she was doing after all. maybe the geisha had a coke habit and needed some quick cash to go score an 8 ball or something. who the fuck knows. then she sucked hard on a cock and winked into the eye of the camera. i got off and closed the video. i think i may have just fallen in love with her.

 
     

(1 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Mindfucking.   
Friday, January 20th, 2006
@ 4:34pm
 


ZOMBIE
by: Joyce Carol Oates


This is the most riveting piece of psychological literature you have read in years.

Fucking brilliant to the point of insanity. But maybe serial killer masterpiece theatre isn't your cup of tea.


...


Thank you solitary_shell .

It's been over a week now. I still can't wash the brutality of those raw words you've written out of my mind.


 
     

(6 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Tuned On.   
Friday, January 20th, 2006
@ 3:23pm
 

She has shiny hair the texture of stiff yellow plastic and a repulsive face. I watch her sometimes on the television. The smiling news anchor with the phony name and android tits. Bright crayola features drawn thick like sunshine. Weeknights at ten you can catch the show. Mindless banter and bullshit journalism are her specialty. I get a hard on whenever she does those consumer investigations. WHAT YOUR BUTCHER REALLY DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR MEAT. You can’t help but jerk off to all that exposed corruption. Sit and stare at my screen as she color codes the world for fucking idiots. I bet every year her hometown throws a parade in her honor. A whole crowd of human cattle just standing and watching with big dumb eyes. Mouths swelling up full of proud sticky cum. Like greedy kids wolfing down huge gobs of cotton candy. Yeah. On that day she is making them feel really fucking special. I guess they must pay her in good feelings because the bitch sure does a first rate job.


 
     

(1 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Men are sluts too.   
Tuesday, January 17th, 2006
@ 4:18pm
 

Mostly I'm obsessed with fucking. Lately it's all I ever think about. Probably I’ve been reading too much quality literature. It’s not even sex, it’s the idea of sex. I want to fuck: Him, Her, You, Them, Me. But one at a time, single file, orderly like, and all without ever having to compromise a god damn ounce of flesh in exchange.

Something led me to that moment. Somehow I knew it was going to be me lying on a bed between the two of them, the other one just watching, or jacking off in the corner, or doing whatever else you fucking compulsives do to pass the time. I was the one who put the music on, chose the melody. I like to feel rhythm flowing deeper through the beat. Tempo. Watched through curious eyelashes, as the one on the right slipped his fingers down the length of my stomach. Knowing that they want you is the biggest turn on of all. His breath on the left side of my neck seemed easy enough, another hand now getting familiar with the fabric of my shirt. I'm not saying I was helpless. Infact I'm almost always to blame. Each time they stroked I moaned. Every time they rubbed me I pushed back twice as hard. I play a shitty character in a porn movie even I wouldn't pay to rent. I just want to get lost in a moment. Pure of thought. Free of doubt. Not have to worry about how fat my ass looks from a particular lighting angle. Or some asshole's fragile emotional state concerning the size of his erection. Or the ever dramatic flow/duration of my bloody menstrual cycle. I just want to allow myself to get fucked. Fucked until we both collapse in a heap of hormonal exhaustion like the sweaty animals we so desperately love and despise. FUCKED.

Then he unbuttoned my jeans, and slid them down a few inches from my hips so he could push my legs apart. He started fingering me, and it wasn’t gentle or like a woman would. He was pushing his fingers in hard and fast, trying to vibrate his whole hand while I muffled the pain inside my throat so as not to alarm the guy in the corner, who sat watching like this was some demented game show, trying desperately to appear as though we were all perfectly casual. His violent method induced speculation as to the origins of his technique. Probably the usual gangbang porno or some drunken frat boy initiation. Perhaps a lifetime of subscriptions to weekly advice columns like dear Abby. Thanks a lot, bitch. The other one took off my shirt and pulled down my black bra, slanted purple now from the falling glow of neon stars along the ceiling. I remember this clearly. My nails were digging into the back of both necks, their tongues and mouths slowly fucking my skin, tasting the salt and sweat off my breasts. And then both were sucking hard on my nipples as I arched my back, wanting release from the pressure of his stupid hand and wet fingers, filled with shame and self-hate, touching every part of my body, but all of it like a muted orchestra with the only real sound or expression in the room focused directly between my barely parted lips. I remember that because this is what I think about lately when I need to get myself off.

After that it was a complete fucking disaster, and to tell you the truth, I try not to think about it very much. I try not to think about it very much at all.


 
     

(18 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Forgotten.   
Tuesday, January 17th, 2006
@ 1:24am
 

I have this friend. Believe it or not, her real name is Sasha. We are really good friends, Sasha and me. At least I think so, anyways.

Only problem, I can't decide if I like her or not. Or even supposing I did, exactly what functional purpose that might serve. That's because every time we hang out it's always a direct result of the massive commitment of smack. We even met because of dope. An online newsgroup catering exclusively to hard drug users. She was giving some jizzface freshman helpful tips on how to synthesize heroin from readily available household ingredients in his mom's basement. Ammonium chloride. Muriatic acid. Activated charcoal. Absolutely. Listen, fuck your mother. Go blow yourself up. A relationship of mutual respect and understanding was born. In her drug fried brain I imagine this makes us the social equivalent of the last two ship wrecked albino amputees to survive amongst the island's sparsely populated dating scene. Either that or completely dispensable, like tissue paper. Nothing about her is genuine except her love for heroin, of that I can assure you.

She works in a laboratory. Not to shock you, but she's a real professional that Sasha. Every time I see her, without fail, she wears an immaculate white lab coat. This oversized coat acts like a cape, dragging just above the ground, creating a cloud of dust and debris behind the black spikes of her hooker's heels, which I suspect she uses more for psychological leverage than any sexual kink. In reality she couldn't possibly be an inch above five foot two. I must confess the notion struck me as more than just a little appealing. Lab technician by day, heroin aficionado by night. Dispensing sterile needles, micro wheel filters, and hydrochloric acid from forbidden pockets like cocaine rock candy and so much sought after confetti. A real red cross on heels. At one point I put some serious thought into opening up a needle exchange program down the front of her pants. Why the fuck not? She tells me stories of how almost all the doctors and medical professionals she knows are pillheads or pushers of some sort or another. The attending doc pops tranquilizers in the break room. Respected researchers simmer meth on their lunch hour. Chemists are the worst. They'll synthesize anything for the sake of ego, and then proceed to snort it all up their nostril in the name of science. Makes you wonder just how many of these professionals are one jack off short of a test tube. Reassuring. In a fucked up kind of way.

Maybe I romanticize it in my mind, this deeper, darker, idea of her. It's just that reality so rarely compares. It lacks a drug's promise of escape, or the total seduction of my imagination. I never said I wasn't fucked up too. The first time she laid that thick, syrupy sweet accent on me I nearly fell over in a fit of sheer absurdity. Did I mention she's Russian? No, no, please, this can't be for real. We drive around dilapidated ghettoes to score our impure powder with windows down and a mentholated cigarette dangling between both fingers. Her strange voice talks continual nonsense over the sounds of the radio. She could be strung out on acid for all I know. Half the time I feel like I'm in some low budget Soviet propaganda film with Borris the fucking spy, on a covert mission to sabotage the U.S. government. All that's missing are the subtitles. Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist party? Please check all that apply. Between puffs she tells me exactly two facts about Russia: It's really fucking cold, and she misses her dope.

The first time we hit it neither one of us had the patience or pleasure to waste with introductions. No how-do-you-do's when there is business to inject. Afterwards we talked. She told me a lot of things I won't repeat. Things that paralleled my life. Felt fucked up and familiar. I began to wonder was this all just dumb coincidence, or something actually more meaningful? She also told me ugly things. Truths I willed myself to forget. Like the prostitution.

Later on I met her middle aged client. He sat on my white living room sofa, balding, telling depressing stories about his many wildly successful attempts at published authorship. Third place for worst piece of shit in a short story contest goes to the older gentlemen without a future. His midsection sagged as if let down by a lifetime of microwaved dinners, and I knew instantly that to look inside his wallet would mean uncovering several small, worn, snapshots of his loving wife and three kids. Probably all gathered round together on the fucking lawn hugging the family dog. All the while: My doing more and more smack just to get the words out of my head as he talks about fucking Sasha. How he fucked her on the ride over. How he usually fucks her on Tuesdays. How he tries to fuck her on a semi-weekly basis. How when they fuck he loves to eat her pussy for hours. How much he loves the taste of it. She nods and plays along. He's telling me this, as we all sit calmly around my living room, like scattered chess pieces pretending not to understand that the only reason she does any of these things is the cash. The cash she needs to buy the drugs. The drugs she scores from her friend, who right now doesn't even fucking care if they're really truly friends, because the one thing she can focus on is fixing. To numb the whole night away with smiling novocain. And emerge from the bathroom five minutes from now, like any of this shit makes her not want to vomit all over the endless white tiled floor.


 
     

(11 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Manifest Content   
Tuesday, November 29th, 2005
@ 1:06pm
 

I once had a dream that life would be different.

Could be different. That was before the fall, of course. The fall of Rome, the Berlin wall and the Soviet Empire, or maybe the forsaken Stock Market, back when people preferred to invest in more practical items, like dispensable toiletries and sanitary napkins. Before the name Walmart became synonymous with unspeakable malevolent influence and deep reaching power, with venomous tentacles of consumer driven savings that reached out from below the depths of the sea, born of dark clouds of inhuman misery that were never truly intended for human eyes. Because our eyes are now weak from the light that shines down upon us. Cascades over the glittering cities and smoke stacked alley ways that criss and cross among the carefully cultivated piles of trash delicately littered at our feet so that the paths we walk could never truly be understood by any one person anymore. The era of the individual has come and gone. Blossomed to fruition a hundred years ago from this very day, only to shrivel and die along the smoldering heaps of countless numbered corpses who followed before them. Like the doomed dynasty of forgotten dinosaurs, they were reptiles once too, much like we once were human not so long ago. Can you try to imagine what that must have felt like for them? The last choked breath of a dying extinction, the last exhale of a final goodbye to all that was and ever would be... until the next to come along and claim their place that is.

Yeah, I dreamed that nightmare long long ago. And whether you believe me or not, I saw it with an absolute, finite clarity. Terror of Beauty fucking personified. The way it could have been. Vivid. The sliver of chance, the very gateway that exposed entire spectrums of alternate dimensions, held trembling in place with all the fragility of a child's imagination. What the present means to either you or I, is only a single reflection of a past that once held the promise of an infinite possible futures.

But that dream was just one distorted surface, you must understand. It only held a mere fracture of mirror to the dazzling galaxies of moments which we somehow chose not to pursue. Somewhere, someone, someplace, at some crucial point in time made the decision to let go of the hand that reached out to be held. Maybe they were understandably frightened by the tightness of grip or a tangible desperation that this closeness conveyed, with tiny fingers intertwined between promises of an intimate understanding. And so they pulled away. And for a split second, yours and mine, and untold generations of our children's futures, so ripe with richness, so full of their own power of possibility, in that one fatal moment simply ceased to exist.

And all that remained for their troubles was a tiny, shattered, dream of what should have been.


 
     

(13 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
   
Monday, January 17th, 2005
@ 4:53pm
 

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars.


 
     
 
Walter.   
Saturday, November 13th, 2004
@ 8:03am
 

i submit my incentive is romance
we watch the pole-dance, how silent the stars.
we rejoice from the hurting so painless
driving distance like death passing cars.
we travel sadly, this journey between us
wishing our fortune forgot to remember how far.


 
     
 
A Dream Within A Dream.   
Saturday, October 9th, 2004
@ 9:44pm
 

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?



-- Edgar Allan Poe


 
     
 
To Summarize...   
Monday, October 4th, 2004
@ 10:13pm
 

A wise man once told me his philosophy as to what the meaning of life is all about:



"Eat thrice, Shit twice."



 
     
 
   
Sunday, October 3rd, 2004
@ 12:30pm
 


"There's the King's messenger. He's in prison now, being punished, and the trial doesn't even begin till next Wednesday, and of course the crime comes last of all."

"Suppose he never commits the crime?" said Alice.

"That would be all the better, wouldn't it?"



-- Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass.


 
     
 
Miss Misery.   
Thursday, June 10th, 2004
@ 11:28pm
 

Retribution.


It's what god wants from us. For what crime? Our overwhelming stupidity of course. And he intends to make us pay. The pain of tomorrow begins today. No hope for delay. No time for dismay. Just act natural. This cosmic form of justice lasts only as long as it takes for your useless body to break and decay.

This is the greatest country in the world and don't you fucking forget it. It won't take much longer now. Here in America we don’t fix our problems, we make movies about them. As I write, a potentially earth shattering event called Global Warming has become the plot line behind a multimillion dollar Hollywood blockbuster. We've cast ourselves as the unsuspecting casualties without even realizing it. It’s a fucking show of tragic proportions. Better get there early or you'll lose your seat. Popcorn and Coke. Dim the lights. A low hush. Now sit back and comfortably watch the death toll rise.

The future is falling all around you in Surround Sound hysteria. Now tell me something I don't know: When did life cease being this inexplicably tangible sense of feelings and become just another cheap recreation of something that used to be original? We recreate everything. Nothing is experienced first hand anymore. We see the world through the eyes of a television screen. Hi Fi pixilated reality makes for good sociopaths. Not a problem. Supermodels and serial killers will get equal air time. The other day I saw a commercial in which a woman looked directly into the camera and said with a deadly smile, "Life was getting in the way of my watching TV, but since I've bought product X, I never have to be interrupted again!" True Fucking Story. I'm not a religious person, but if I were, I honestly would have dropped to my knees and begun fervently praying for all of our souls right then and there.

I'm feeling more and more like a brain without a body. Systematic and Symptomatic. I'm completely detached and loving it. Why are we all so fucking attached to these THINGS? Meaningless shit. Little scraps of colored paper. Shiny rocks. Imaginary lines drawn into a land that wasn't even ours to claim in the first place. Stop the fucking insanity. Surrender. The fight is over. Lay down your possessions, and discover the true meaning of life: Sex and Violence. I have a vision of bringing my own unique brand of dysfunction to middle America and reaching the masses. I want to see dirty syringes and AIDS infected lepers plastered across every cereal box, on every shelf, carried in every fucking grocery store in the country. They'll have some catchy brand name like "Junkie-O's", and every third box is guaranteed to contain a bio hazardous prize. The kids are stuffing themselves so full of fucking junk as it is, I don't see what difference it will make if they start shooting it as well.

I'm thinking about my veins all the time now. These tiny blue rivers running beneath a transparent sky of skin. They're going to be the death of me you know. I've developed a growing preoccupation with blood and all the things that go with it. Knives meeting arteries. Needles to martyr me. Flowing Fast. Straight to the heart of me. Strategically. Evilly. Directly effecting the sounding and pounding inside my chest. It sings to me. Like a beautifully rhythmic Arrhythmia. Thump Thump Beat. Loud and Sweet. The soul is a Soldier. Soldiering on in the face of grave misfortune...

We live here in a single painful moment, drawn out and stretched through all eternity. What do you have holding you here? A menial job? Overdue car payments? Delusions of grandeur? Take note: Napoleon fell from such great heights only because he chose to climb so high. Which is better... being alone and indifferent to the rest of the world, or to be tragically, unknowingly trapped inside it? I guess the real question is: Would you rather live the rest of your life wandering the streets as a stray animal, or be put to fucking sleep?

Contrary to popular opinion I have never been, what I consider, even close to becoming a body bag. The closest thing to a near death experience I've ever encountered was when I worked at the local mall over Christmas break. Why do you fucking pieces of shit need any more excuses to declare a holiday for yourselves? Your whole fucking lives are a holiday. Now you're just rubbing it in to be cruel.

Death is not cruel. I've decided that I want to die with salt on my tongue and a handful of sugar sprinkled across my grave. Why? Life tastes like shit, and death will be ever so sweet.

Tease.

 
     

(30 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Seneca. Warm bath. Open veins.   
Tuesday, April 13th, 2004
@ 1:32pm
 

Note to self: God is a leper.

Not only highly contagious, but once you've been infected virtually impossible to get rid of. We fear him. We avoid him. We shun him. Most of us are so scared of what he might look like that we neglect to find out whether or not he even exists. Better stay the fuck away or you might piss him off. Piss off a leper and you're bound to catch something deadly.

I feel sick sometimes, an illness without a name, impossible to diagnose. Like some kind of massive tumor lurking behind my brain that has swelled to the size of a grapefruit. It makes sense in a funny sort of way because lately it has been getting harder and harder to think. Before I ever wasted my brain away on drugs I was smart as a whip. I could easily do long division in my head while simultaneously making complex conversions of the metric system. Quick! How many liters in a gallon? Beats the hell out of me. Now I am lucky to remember the name of someone at a party 5 minutes after I was first introduced to them. I am running out of room in my cranium man. I can't fill my head up with useless chit chat, shit like what color car you drive or the name of your fucking cat. I've got to conserve space.

Space is a luxury and a burden. The more you have the less things begin to matter. If I had enough space to store an infinite amount of information, then suddenly serious issues like global warming and erectile dysfunction wouldn't seem so important anymore. Trivialized by comparison. There is a lot to be said for context you know. In the proper context anyone can be anything they fucking want to be. If I met a girl at church who gave out hand jobs she would be a whore. If I met the same girl at a whorehouse giving out hand jobs she'd be a saint. There is no damage so great that once done it can't be undone by merely shifting locations. It's that simple. A change of venue makes everything new again. Whores can be saints. Girl scouts become hookers. Murderers and drunks and serial rapists are now God fearing, patriotic young business men.

That's why trusting anyone at face value is a big mistake. Observe.

HIM: Would you ever try and screw me over in some manner?
ME: I might try to screw you.
HIM: You would put me in a vulnerable state.
ME: You're always fucking vulnerable. That's the stupidest thing to be.
HIM: Yea okay. Again, we can compare notes later in life. That's all I'm going to argue on the matter.
ME: I'm not arguing. I just feel like a little girl and you're acting like an old man. It's zapping my fucking energy.

It's true. All the energy I once had is now long gone. The laws of entropy are slowly working against me. Moving requires more effort than standing still. Standing still requires more effort than laying down. Laying down requires more effort than being dead. So clearly, being dead is the ideal state of nature. It is what we are all working towards so diligently in our 9 to 5's every fucking day of the week. To really accomplish something in life is to die. Death represents the end of the biological play list. No more music, no more songs, just wonderfully incomplete silence.

I am learning what it means to be still. To think and not speak. To look and not love. I've removed myself from living as I used to know it. Life is far too complicated. Full of all sorts of people that I can't fucking (under)stand. If I pretended to give a shit that would only serve to complicate matters.

Stoicism here I come.


 
     

(15 are morbid. | Sex?)

 
Quote of the day.   
Tuesday, April 6th, 2004
@ 2:41pm
 

"They knew how misery is related to mind. You cling, you crave, you assert yourself-- and you live in a homemade hell. You become detached-- and you live in peace. 'I show you sorrow,' the Buddha had said, 'and I show you the ending of sorrow.'"

--- Aldous Huxley, Island.

 
     
 
Stop breaking character.   
Wednesday, March 31st, 2004
@ 1:24pm
 

What we have here is a problem. Government issued, officially certified and socially verified, beyond any reasonable doubt. I repeat. A serious fucking problem. Naturally, the details are classified.

What I can tell you:

I've been Sorted, Snorted, Aborted, and Distorted. Trapped inside this sunless box with no ventilation and absolutely no hope (what-so-fucking-ever) for the future. Saturday. Sunday. Monday through Friday. All day, Every day, today, and the next day. Repeat, Reuse, Recycle, but never rewound or reversed, not until the very end of time. Always remaining but never decaying, this cycle has turned mindless repitition into meaningful reality. Note the distortion. Fucking depressing, isn't it?

None of this means anything to me anymore. Life is a scientific experiment with too many variables. We are all lab rats living in the same maze. Born as victims only to die of circumstance.

Instead of letting go, getting into the grind, I waste precious time. Waste time on useless thoughts. Thinking is the unthinkable crime. The absolute fucking worst of it's kind. One punishable by Death.

Lethal injection.

It's the only humane form of justice we have left. Lucky for the taxpayers, I'm prepared to save them countless hard earned dollars by administering the sentence myself. I don't see any reason why social courtesy shouldn't extend beyond the customary blowjob and a firm business handshake.

I need to switch mental gears now. I work best in neutral...

I am slowly turning into a machine. Whirrrrrr. Click click click. I no longer experience hunger or require sleep. I haven't enjoyed a meal in years. Physically speaking food is irrelevant. I can go days on nothing but cigarettes, water, and reused chewing gum. I can't find anything to savor, every bite tastes like raw guilt seasoned with failure. To sleep is a chore. It requires hours of mental preperation, and physical exhaustion. I run for miles to trick my body into feeling tired, and then spend half the night laying in darkness torturing myself with unwanted thoughts. I am the walking dead. Sometimes I stay up for days on end in the hopes of reaching the point where sweet sleep finally takes hold and overpowers me. I long to be it's helpless victim. All I fucking want is one night of unbroken rest.

I think about taking pills all the time. All sorts of varieties. Pills to sleep. Pills to supress hunger. Pills to forget. Pills to hide depression. Pills to escape. Pills to feel numb. Pills to neutralize the negative effects of other pills. Pills to compensate for not taking enough of the right god damn pills. Red pills, Purple pills, Blue pills, Pink pills. Pill after pill after pill after pill. I just need one more pill to make it all work out. I measure quantity, divide dosage, mix prescriptions and multiply effect. Suddenly I'm a fucking rocket scientist and mathmetician rolled into one. Logically speaking, using a pill to achieve a state of normality would make being normal an illusion. You wouldn't believe how easy it is to crave illusion when you are laboring under a false set of pretenses.

My actions are no longer motivated of my own free will, but rather dictated by The Fear. The Fear of rejection. The Fear of failure. The Fear of being hurt. The Fear of happiness. Etc, etc, etc. I haven't been truly living for a while now, just existing. I'm single and looking. Looking for a way out. I have no desire for companionship, no need for validation. I just want to move far far away and live alone forever, but I know that as soon as this happens I am as good as dead, so I put it off indefinitely. I wouldn't bother to leave the house. I'd just stay inside all day, forget to buy food, avoid interaction, not even care enough to move. My emaciated corpse would be discovered a week post mortum, draped across my computer keyboard, covered in ants and smelling like shit.

Why is it that no matter how often I bathe I never seem to feel clean anymore?


 
     

(23 are morbid. | Sex?)