24 August 2009

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?


17 August 2009

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."


04 August 2009

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.