They Are Only Machines

Right. I don’t know what all the bitching is about. 2005 was so fat my asshole is stretched out. Gaped. This past year I lived in four different states, three different time zones and ranging from 45 roommates to one to zero. I bought my car. I bought my TV. Another man drank my piss after I took one in his beer bottle. I saw gerbils run rampant in a neighborhood. I fired a fucking rocket launcher. I met the Secretary of Defense, well we shook hands when I got my commission, it's not like I had a sit down with him and ate pasta. I ran more than I have in the collective 27 years of my existence in 2005. I lost very little weight by doing all of this running. I'm going back to not eating.
To better review what a splendid year this has been for me, I have put together the following. The last paragraph from all my shit this year. Or at least the ones I like. Read it and diddle your fiddle later, or whilst. Six years left!!!! Fuck the Mayan calendar.

Let me inspire you. Let me tell you that you're special. Allow me to inform you that the wisdom of the ages could not have described your beauty. If I can impart upon you that the poets of old could never have imagined your importance to me and to the world. The world is a better place because you are in it, and I am a better person because I am in your aura. You are destined for great things and I am blessed that I live during your time.
You deserve more.
I'm going to go look up more porn.

It's early evening. The mothers and fathers are playing with their kids across the street. Life is good. Seesaw goes up and down and the swings go back and forth while the merry go round is out of service due to a bad bearing. Such is life. Sooner or later we have no desire to hang out with the folks. It must sadden them, though they never let on. How depressing it must be to once have been the recipient of such gratefulness for something as small as a new toy, now you barely receive thanks for a loan cosigning or a new kidney. At one time you are the center of their world, now a bit part left on the editing room floor. Everything you say or do is wrong, whereas once it was never questioned. They are turning that playground into a gas station.

I love you. I mean I really love you. The thought of you not being around forever is unbearable. The day I lose you I will destroy Mount Everest. You are too good for this. Everything in the universe is mediocre in comparison to you. The infiniteness of space is a drop in the bucket to how you make me feel when you look at me. God is powerless over you. You move, think, feel and act in such a way that no deity can help but watch you in awe from the afterworld. I think about you every second of my life, even when you are three feet from me. I bathe in your soul, which flows out around you like a warm amniotic fluid protecting you from humanity. You make everyone around you better and even if they never realize it, the power to start or stop the world, as we know it, lies solely within you.

The army loves routine. Schedules run this institution. We thrive by them. We don't know what to do without one. We plan out the next six months and do our damnedest not to break the schedule. For instance, my day is, wake up and go to PT. I then come back and shower and eat breakfast. Then I go to class. Then we get lunch and then it's back to class. We end our day and I go to the gym and come home and drink till I fall asleep. Our lunch goes from noon till one everyday. I hall ass to my car, barely make the first light, drive six blocks so that everyday at 12:06 I see her. This is the best part of my day. She runs. Where from, I couldn't tell you and I wouldn't know where she runs to. But I know she will run in front of my car as she crosses the street, which borders the left field line of the little league diamond. I stare. I sit at the light and watch her run. I inhale her as she runs past, never noticing anything but her next step. She chooses the worst clothes to run in. She sometimes runs in those black polyester pants girls wear to clubs. Sometimes she runs in a sweater and shorts. Her hair is always wild and free. Flowing around like the mane of a horse galloping in the open fields of Montana. Her hair is darker than my car. She is probably some Major's wife. He probably cheats on her. I hope her name is Ivetta. I hope she runs forever.

I took a trip last night and seen it all. I saw the ground crumble from the blood of Jesus. I saw the Argonauts do their thing. I watched as Achilles drug the Body of Hector for three days around the walls of Troy. I tried to warn Caesar. I followed where Mosses led. I watched as Henry got married. I conspired with Oswald to kill JFK. I hid when Cronos ate his children. I hung out with two men named Ajax. I liked Ajax the Lesser more. I ate the Apples of the Hesperides. I got caught shucking and jiving with an Amazon. I saw the Golden Fleece. I told Walt he should think about mice. I fucked Cleopatra pretty hard. I borrowed Shakespeare’s pen. I gave the Druids an engineering textbook so they could build Stonehenge. Rimbaud gave me the flu. I drank with Salinger. I did all that and more. All in one night.

Anyway I would like to comment on your smile. I hate it. It makes me sick to my stomach. My gullet cries out in pain to be tortured every time I see it. It hurts to know that a smile so wonderful and completely beautiful can be subject to the sullies of such wretchedness as human beings. We are wretched, and your smile is so perfect it ought never have to suffer through the indignities others impose upon it. The emotions I feel when I look at it are too strong for me to comprehend. I know that as mortal beings your smile will soon enough fade as we grow older and will one day cease to exist, thus I hate your fucking smile. But I believe that the real reason I despise your smile is that it reminds me of my own limitations. I will never be as beautiful. I will remember it for as long as I can, but will eventually forget it. I do not have the ability to describe it to the extent it deserves. I will fail in making part of you immortal.

I built this house with my own hands. I built this staircase with wood, nails and a hammer. I was buck-naked. I wore sawdust to hide my shame. I'd like to spend some time with you, pulling splinters from my toes with your teeth. I left that stair loose so it will creak and let me know what time you come home. You strumpet.

I wish it would open up and rain. Rain like it’s never rained before. Flood this fucking world and make Noah look like a fly fisherman. But the truth of the matter is, all the rain, Evian or sparkling spring waters that ever flowed could never wash this place clean. It will never glow as new.

Right. She sings to me at night like a drug dealer skulking in the shadows. I beg her as her voice fades to never stop singing. But she laughs at my request with disdain. I don't matter to her. I wouldn't have it any other way. It's beautiful now. Peaceful.
I am tired. So you get nothing. Nothing to make you go, "Awww." Nope. Nothing like that. Today you get shit and you'll have to feast on it until I get back and write something to make you think of me while you fuck his brains out. Or to think of Steve McQueen while she rides your jalopy until the tires go flat. Or think of me while you fuck her mouth and wish it were her friend and she wishes you were an ice cream sandwich. Or think of him saying my words while he fucks your sister. Or even possibly thinking of me while you pleasure yourself and I live in the woods dreaming of beer.

Did it ever occur to you that I might just be spending time, as of late, fighting crime on a level so secret that space aliens don't even know about it? I fight intradiminsional crime here people. Accept it. These are things that we cannot discuss nor contemplate. But we can hypothesize, unless you already know, which you don't.

I just saw her again. We had coffee together. I sat at a table alone and across the room she sat there. She was reading some book I would probably hate. I was trying to teach myself magic. Not the gathering, but like slight of hand type shit. No one seemed amused at my folly, as I suck at slight of hand. Why is she even here? I sat there and drank my coffee. It was black with no sugar. I drank about seven cups. She milked one new fangled monstrosity latte thing for close to two hours. She just read. She knew everyone looked. She seemed bothered by it. How? How can someone be annoyed that another will take interest based solely on aesthetic value? With most people you have to get to know them before they become attractive. Unless you're like me, and your soul is black. Then you just sort of watch her drink her coffee and wish you were the binding of her book that she holds firmly and securely. She know how to hold the spine of a book, she's done it before. Her hand needs a book. It feels empty without one. It is in the nature of her hands. The nature of my hands is not making things disappear.

There's more, but read for yourself. I am tired of cutting and pasting. So bugger off.