There’s a man inside my head with only half a face. He sits alone in a padded, locked room as I watch with with unannounced tears from the ceiling. My mother thinks of him from many miles and lifetimes away. Hers is one very different from that of her brothers’. This anger may be all the tension formed while fighting thoughts of meaninglessness. He grasps onto the accelerator of his motorcycle with enough intensity to strip it of it’s casing. He rides with no expression. Only a distant yet vast hope that will drive him to continue these unsatisfactory practices until he’s no longer able.
I would only hope he sees his true fate and partially relinquishes that hope. Only in this will he be able to make peace with his family. Obnoxious of a choice as they were…loving and wonderful nonetheless. He hasn’t thought about the end yet. He actually has, but this is resent and denial. This is seclusion. He can never admit to himself yet, it’s too soon. It’s can’t be. We can only hope there is a day or two at the least where he can calm enough to say goodbyes and remind his family that he cares.
Unfortunately right now, no one understands. Everyone just wants the old Bob back. This expectation is their way of being there for him, but the last thing he wants is to need people to be there and remind him that’s he’s different. Although he does need them, despite his outbursts and rage and disobedience to the rules of his usual life. Part of him figures that if people are still there for him, even through this, he still has purpose. But he won’t know until testing it to the limits of tolerance and love from his family.
He needs someone strong to push through all his intentional controversy and force him to remember that he is loved…loved with full acceptance of his pain and anguish. He’s rebelling. Against himself, against his family, the cancer, the doctors, his job, his life and happiness in general…anything. But this rebellion cries for submission from it’s focus. A submission that will never be enough, never realized…but needs to be there with unwavering strength regardless. It’s the only wire left in the cable. If it snaps, all integrity is lost. We are still there for you. We still care and always will. We love you, you are family. And family is not bound by the limits of life. It is forever. Lasting ash, afterlife, or absence of.
- Robert Marks 2007
The over-eagerly concerned scurvy worrier brings out a basket of like forty oranges only like fourteen minutes out to sea to a crew of only eight. Gary kicks the basket out of his hands, again. You’re getting to be a real dick, Gary.
This plumber is taking forever to get here. You know, if I was a witch, I bet I could just boil the plumbing section from the Yellow-Pages, make a stew of it, add some eye-of-newt and be laughin’. Then POOF I’d have my very own plumber and he’d always be on time. On call 24/7, because-I-said-so.
But would I ever wonder about how he felt? What about his rights? Is he comfortable enough, in the basement closet, for months on end, in-between plumbing problems? Sure, he can survive without eating, but would he enjoy the opportunity…the physiological sensation of the process itself? Does he dream or have goals? “Get out of the rat-race” and onto something more creatively rewarding? Like woodcrafting or something? Does he need love? Is it possible to create a being, through witchcraft, who is so good at plumbing, yet expect that he doesn’t urge, like we all do, to feel the warm, consenting flesh of a woman’s body and lips against his own? Probably just easier to do a spell that teaches me how to be a plumber.
So where do you think they put the listings for witch-schools in this thing? Is it listed with the other schools? Seems unlikely. Probably hidden somewhere sneaky and witch-like. Maybe if I circle every fifth letter it will spell out the answer for me. God, I fucking hate the Yellow-Pages!
Oh okay, here he is. About time, asshole. Better fix my toilet real good, you sub-human piece of garbage. When I offer him some water, I’ll mention the pop in the fridge, but I’ll tell him it’s “pretty flat.” No way he’ll want any of it then.
I cook with the blood of my victims. I drain them, still alive, like a spider. Only my webs are duct tape (Costco has it on super cheap for a ten-pack until the end of the month). The duct tape also helps to keep the bitching and moaning to a minimum throughout the draining step, which takes a few days. Then I jar some so it will stay fresh for the “slow kill season.” I put it in just about everything.
Thinking about adding some sort of binder so I can make a jam and spread it on my toast in the mornings. I’m getting so sick of this grape jelly I bought when I was stoned. It was great at first, but enough is enough. It’s like the jar is is bottomless or something. Now it’s just this glaring, purple, burden in my fridge. I bet I’ll have it for years. I don’t think it ever goes bad. Who knows what’s in it!!
Oh! Check this out, I’m so stoked. Found out this week that I’m at the top of my class at the culinary school. Cool, right? Still think I’m crazy? I dare you to try my “blood cheesecake” and not audibly shriek with delight. Then tell me who’s crazy? Who’s crazy? Who’s crazy.
Dear Girl with the gap-tooth that was going home to cook vegan ravioli. I’m glad I commented on your pasta cookbook while you were buying wine from me. You seemed surprised that I was vegan too. In fact, you gave me quite the alluring look, and I quite noticed.
But you see, I’m quite shy with sexual tension lately. I’m thirty-two and just spent a few months living at my Mom’s house after I got back from traveling and needed to find a job. It was quite taxing on my ego. Very taxing. Just four days ago I moved into my own place again and only today realized that I could feel comfortable and confident dating. But my courage and pride are still a bit bruised which is causing me to be more cowardly in the face of beauty, adorning me with flourishing, wonderful, soul-warming sexual validation. You did this to me all in a look. I can’t imagine what a dinner would do to me.
So I just needed to tell you that I’m sorry for not inviting myself to your vegan ravioli dinner. Your look clearly indicated that you would enjoy my company. It would also have been the most romantic thing ever if we pulled it off right, with the right series of words and looks throughout the evening. Man, I’m really sorry.
Hope you come back in my store to buy liquor again. And keep coming back until you find me on shift. I promise I won’t fuck it up next time by being shy or scared of sounding inappropriate while working.
I’ll just ask you out, okay? Then you can continue looking at me like that for as long as you like.
Two big old glass windows, side by side, centered. On another wall is the old radiator, that drips if you don’t have the wheel just right. The rest is up to me.
I am, exactly, as, pathetic, as all, my, attempts, at, irony, try, to, cover, up.
And then the punks in the alley yelled to their friend, singled out, in unison, “Happy birthday, to you. Happy birthday, to you! Happy birthDAY, DEAR FAGGOTTTTT…HAPPY BIRTH-DAY, TO YOU!!”
Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Notes From The Underground
Tell me everything about you. Like, everything. Tell me what your hobbies are, and I’ll try to make mine sound modest even though I feel they are superior to yours. Tell me how long your showers are, and how much time you spend drying off. Tell me what’s going on with your hair in that picture. Tell me who that guy was that you had a crush on the day before you met me. Tell me that your favourite colour is pink, because you’re a girl, even though you know how typical that is. Tell me that you prefer being warm to being cold, because I’m the opposite, and how you think we’ll balance each other out when we cuddle. Tell me that you hate writing that just repeats the same sentence structure over and over, only for the crescendo effect, which itself ends up being the only real substance in the text. Tell me when you think I’m flipping the channels too fast and I’ll always sort of admit that I had no idea what I was flipping past (let’s pretend that PVR doesn’t exist and we can’t afford it even if it did). Tell me about your brother, Felix, about why he has top dentures (and when the first time was that he stuck them out at you to give you a razz), and if we have time after that, how your parents picked his name with a good conscience. Let’s talk about the first time he got bullied and how embarrassed he was when you stood up for him after getting super pumped from the She-Ra episode you watched before going to school. I really can’t wait to know everything. Right now I’m in love with the mystery of you. Maybe infatuation? My own projection, perhaps.
I’ve got some stories too, but right now, I’m more interested in you. So let’s have it, before I get really pissed off and start smacking you around.
I wish you could see me right now, reading the letter you sent me, imagining us together and happy. Eventually, it should be.
But then again, only a few minutes later, you’d see me eating chips, from the bag, standing up in one spot in my room, with no music, like an entranced zombie for like, 12, handfuls in a row, at least. So that would probably ruin it.
Unless I can figure out a way to shut the Portal-Vision off just before that. I’m still pretty unsure of the controls. Silly thing has too many buttons. Manual just says to check the website, but their site-map navigation is terrible. Just about impossible to find the information I need. They’ve just gone straight down-hill since the buy-out.
Horribly weak and borderline childish ending to the article. Even I was convinced that the argument was flawed, reading how crass and unpolished the writer’s emotions were. Unpracticed. Inethological. I want out. Out of this idea that I hold so dearly to me. How passionately I regard it. Nothing else comparable. But no more. Give me a steak. Now. Fill me with fleshy protein and the charred, textured, juiciness.
I wanted to trade sides, disassociate with who the writer is. Get as far away as possible from such a weak psychological stance. Such a beta-stage theory. Fucking aggro whiner. But it started out good. Go vegan.
The internet is what you make of it. The internet is what you make of it. The internet is what you make of it. The internet is whatat you ,a
Give me something. Give me conversation, stimulating experiences, events to gossip and gab about later. Give me a reason to continue to remember you beyond tomorrow. Let’s figure out a way to stay in each others minds. Something, please. Something, rather than nothing.
Free the chimps. All of them. Free all of the chimps. And all of the other animals too. Free them, too.