In Thy Mercy

Right. When I go to hell, Claire Danes wouldn’t look at me if I were using the only water in hell to put her flaming flesh out. When I go to hell, sports won’t air on television. When I enter hell, I am sure I will be looked over and not receive as much torture or pain as everyone else, because I can keep my mouth shut. As I rot in hell, I will carve a small corner out and remember old books I read and smile. When I escape hell, no one will notice or care. When I exit hell, I will be met by God and his Angels and they will return me to hell for the bounty on all escapees because heaven needs new highways and they don’t believe in taxes. Heaven would rather have the money than me. That is what I am getting at.
In case anyone is keeping score, I am losing. But to be fair, I haven’t met a winner yet.
I have successfully become invisible. I am unsure if this accomplishment was accomplished on purpose or by fate or by unfortunate luck, but I am sure people can see through me. I am mostly not there anyway. Part of me is there, but most of me is caught in the ether between this realm and a billion planes of existence where my life is dramatically different. So, while invisible, people cannot walk through me yet. However, if the eyes are the physical manifestation of a representation of the soul, and everyone looks through me, then it only stands to reason that the only part of everyone that will carry on upon their inevitable deaths walk through me.
I am giving 12 to 1 odds that I never own a couch.
Mark Strong is my new favorite actor.
Actions write the words other speak. Reality is mediated by everything. Truth is needed. Unfortunately, the truth isn’t funny. Unless it is funny. Which it isn’t. Except I find it funny. I went around town today, and in five hours I saw 200 signs telling me what I cannot do.
I never wanted to wake up and be 60. But tomorrow, I will and I won’t be able to tell anyone a single thing about my life. Partly because nothing worthy of memory happened. Partly because Tennessee Whiskey kills my brain cells. But mostly because it is pointless to talk to people who can’t see you.

No. Wrong. Or Left.

Right. I used to gorge myself at this taco bell in Boston. I would eat like 40 tons of food. I puked after.
As soon as possible XTX. I promise. I am sorry.
It isn't my fault...I cheated.
This isn't good. I could recycle crap for old, and you would have ate it up and sucked from me like I was CNN. But I won't.
This will not fill. I could have bought products from TV or ate eggs or ran today. But I didn't.
This isn't what you expected. I could have done nothing. Your proprietors could have been more cautious. But we weren't.
I assume you are going to tell me that a bagel is choice and cash is duty is right. I will not argue. I don't care. i don't plan on being here that long to actually make any difference.
Dead people owe nothing.
Alive people owe only their actions.
Newborn people owe their life.
Borne people owe their soul.
Think about it.
Fuck you. It isn't a choice if I have to have it.
Fuck you. Throw a moody anytime I am not with you.
Fuck you. Throw a moody anytime I am with you.
Fuck you. I did not do that.
Fuck you. Not your problem - not my problem.
No one born homeless ends homeless. In fact, I, having not looked up any statistics, would be willing to bet that if a person is born homeless, he/she is more than likely to wind up awesome and not homeless. Mostly because homelessness is already felt.
Some people wind up homeless because of drugs. Some of booze. Some of opportunity. Others chance. I hate being regulated to chance.

NASA Can't See Shit

Right. Pray for me while you molest me. Save me while you cut me. Show me the light as you shred yourself. Cut yourself in front of me so I can watch God pour out of you. Degrade yourself so I can see the limitations pragmatic dogmatisms foster. In life, some people are born, others created and some are just here.
Jack Daniels has never lied to me. It never promised me anything. It never gave me anything I hadn’t asked for. It never, not once, raped my relatives. I’ve asked for verification. I have documentation. It is verifiable.
Life is funny. It really is. It is one giant joke.
There is this house down the street from where I live. Every time I drive by it, be it noon, nine in the A.M. or three in the A.M. it is shady. People hang out, the doors are open, packages are handed off and booze is drunk out of African-American bags on the stoop. I thought about bombing it to shit. Pissing on the ashes. But the truth is, I can’t get paid. And the betterment of the neighborhood isn’t as important as my landlady’s bank statement.
I am sure there is some sort of law against that too.
In a thousand years, no one will care. None of this will mean shit. God will evolve with our understanding of him. Science will ostracize new demographics. People will care with passion. Children will grow and scoff and forget and never learn. All of that will mean new understanding for those, but for us, we will be the butt of the joke.
My watch sits lower than it used to.
What if it is true that once in a while a little pain must be endured in order for satisfaction to be felt? What if it is true that one in a while a little silence must be heard to enjoy noise? What if it is true that once in a while you should not placate your own bullshit?
So as it stands, I am a murderer. I kill. Human life means little to me as I have no regard for it. That is fine. I can be that. I can do that. I don’t care because I have no passion. I have no insides. I have no feeling. I have nothing that you want so why can’t you stay away from me?

All You Can Eat Shrimp Dick

Right. I once tried to do things. People said jump and I jumped. People said to tread lightly, and I watched myself. People said to respect my elders and act mindful of other people and always keep in mind humanity and to be decent. I did all of these things. I do all of these things. And to be honest, I enjoy these things. And to be even more honest, being and doing all of these things has gotten me absolutely nothing.
Not that life is about what you get. No. Life is simple – you do shit and then you die. Up until I left the Army, I don’t think anyone could say I wasn’t doing shit. I did shit. I did a lot of shit. And one day, I, along with all of you, will die.
Then I left the Army.
Good times.
I don’t ask for much. I don’t feel entitled to anything. I try my best at most everything I do. Eight months. No work. Nothing. No one even seems remotely interested in letting me work. I am 31 years old. I have a Master’s degree; I was an Army Captain with combat experience. I can’t get a job waiting tables. I had jobs and internships and awards won in college and graduate school and the Army. I can’t get a job as a part time janitor at the fucking church down the street.
The church says they save those jobs for people who “need” them. I don’t know how much more I could need work.
The restaurants say they don’t see me working there very long. Wouldn’t it stand to reason that if I am applying to wait tables that I can’t find work and will be there until I do and since in 8 months I have gotten exactly zero interest mean that I will be waiting tables until I am killed in a tragic boating accident?
I know it seems hard out there. But every idiot I know makes money. Every douchebag, self serving fuck has a job.
Everyone shits. Every single person on this planet takes shits. Some just do it differently. Some people shit in the wild for their life. Most people shit on toilets. Some people shit in a hole in the floor. Some people shit on solid gold toilets.
"History did not demand Yossarian's premature demise, justice could be satisfied without it, progress did not hinge upon it, victory did not depend on it. That men would die was a matter of necessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be the victim of anything but circumstance. But that was war."

I Hate Security Cameras On Public Property

Right. Sometimes I kill children in my dreams. Before I go on, I want you to know that I deliberately chose to write that sentence that way.
I am trying something new with my hair.
Sometimes, but not often, there are leagues, or scores, or plagues, or what-have-you, of children in my dreams. I burn them. I watch them die. I take solace in knowing somehow the world is better. Sometimes I have a sword in my hand. Sometimes I have a remote. Once I had a chicken. A toy motorcycle has been there on occasion. Last night, there was a flower.
I will never do much with my life.
The children always die the same way – fire. They bathe and play in gasoline and run and chase one another and giggle. I then ignite one, and all die. I watch them, searchingly, until all are dead. Then I exhale and focus to breathe in through my nose so I smell what I have done.
I am enjoying the book I am reading.
The dawn comes in and ushers in a sense of peace; of accomplishment of the unattainable. The dawn comes and I walk through the football field size of burned youth. I am met on the other side by their parents. They all thank me, and offer praise and gifts and cry for Holy Communion.
I understand your argument; I wish you could see it my way.
I ask the mothers and fathers why they asked this of me. Why did I have to kill their children? Why was it a good thing that these children are dead? They explain over one another, that the children are not dead. I turn and look at my mass murder and see children playing over the corpses of themselves.
I need to lose weight.
I turn back to the parents and express my disbelief. A small hand then grabs what is in my hand and takes it back to the other children. The children adore it. They thank me for it. They use it and all the knowledge they glean from it to usher in their generation.
I wake up and want pancakes.

I Am Not A Flotation Device

Right. I am a terrible friend. 10 years ago you were the age I am now. I am sorry I missed it. I would have been 21. I was a shot of life.
I should write something about an elephant for you. I should play Tiger Woods on Wii with you. I should make you a sandwich and make sure the mustard is in perfect amounts on every bite. I should turn back time a couple weeks and tell you hello. I am sorry.
I am disgusting.
There was a time though.
I am suddenly the go to guy for advice. Everyone is pulling. Everyone wants. Everyone asks me for something. I give, and nothing is heard. I give and nothing is returned.
I have a thing with the FBI again in a day or so. I am not even sure I want to do it. But I do need a job. No one else seems interested in me.
I like grilled cheese.
I am going to quit drinking.
I am going to try to run again.
I can take beatings.
I saw an elephant once. He was big and grey and looked at me. He lowered his head and we held eye contact for a minute. We starred at one another. I expected a noise. I expected movement. I expected something. Instead, he just walked away. His eyes looked familiar.
People are funny. We care about things that I do not understand. We seem to like things I do not. I understand though, it is me not everyone else. I am fucked up.

I Need To Piss

Right. When the rapists of the rivers bathed in clear water, we should have paid attention. When the sons of the privileged were coveted by perceived salvation, we should have paid attention. When freedom was defined instead of theorized, we should have paid attention. When knowledge was quantified – we stopped paying attention.
I fail to see how silencing anything is freedom.
I loathe the homogenization of people.
I am constantly amazed at how I cannot understand concepts you have such a firm grasp on.
How are you? Is everything okay? I hope so. Some people get married. Some people get divorced. Some people destroy boundaries. Some people build walls. Strikes and gutters. Don’t sweat it.
What is your greatest fear? Mine is how few “decent is the highest form of patriotism” bumper stickers I have seen lately.
What is your greatest weakness? Mine is math.
What is your greatest strength? Mine is the ability to wade.
What was the last book you read? I just read a Daredevil comic that I enjoyed.
Where do you see yourself in five years? I see myself dead.
What separates you from everyone else? My ability to leave.
Some of us met in 2004. I was leaving or maybe I had left graduate school. Some of us met before, and I told you about my blog. Some of us have met in the consequent years following the inception of my blog and you have maybe left, or disregarded or grown sick or not understood.
Some of you like certain things. Some of you like everything. Some of you worry. Some of you spit praise like my ears grow wax. Some of you say nothing.
Some of me writes. Some of me wrongs. Some of me is a product of my environment. Some of me is all DNA. Some of me lusts. Some of me is satisfied.
Some of you support the old boss. Some see something different in the new boss. Some of us care. Some of us don’t. Some of us believe. Some of us have faith.
None of us know. None of us have been there. None of us are what we ought.
You will never get it.
I will never understand.