Twenty - 12 (ongoing)

"There are lies, damned lies and statistics."

~ Mark Twain

56.


When the lines start to blur and all of the mush that fills the happy little center of things starts to leak out all over the goddamned beige carpet of life, it's probably about high time to redirect the forward momentum of things. They say that the good die young, and that the old have it coming, but us of middle age are always sort of caught in-between all of that, right? 
The rock 'n roll generation has it's claim to fame in the high cocaine rush, the back stage pass, ludicrous hair styles and sexually transmitted mind control. It's Ronald Reagan wearing a Max Headroom mask, feeling his way through a generation by grabbing breasts and feigning emotion; the process of method acting. 
I look out on the streets today and I see the same tin-can-reality that made people like Jimmy Carter want to live in a fucking tent. With perspectives skewed and the prospect of "the eternal Hell" pressing in on the great white suburban mythic, the pressure on those that will come behind us seems down right torturous. After all, the sins of the fathers and their wives and their lives must weigh heavily on the heads of those babes that wish nothing more than a burning sensation and a spot on the tour bus. 
The slackers anthem screams at us from the sidelines, yet with all of our sweet nation's patience for the "life at home," have we all but forgotten where we came from?
If prohibition taught us anything, it's that you can't keep doors closed; that every word speaks easy, and that the good of the common decency will eventually be ruled out, as money can be made. With odds like that, who in their right minds would dare stand up and take anyone in arms? Who would bare arms and invite his fellow man into an embrace?
If I utilized things of green for anything other than cooking, I would probably like to  deny inhaling with a man named Clinton. Be it George or Bill, the outcome would be the same. After all, if it's not "One nation under a groove," then it's divided by people who support all of the wrong aspects of something that could almost be positive...were it not for the negatives. 
We've traded "H," "snow," grass," and ass for Autism, asbestos, 911 and some serious, undeniably real...estate; a serious bitch with a burning crotch, one that knows who's fucking who. 
If Ward Cleaver could see the puddle of the future, he might have wished to be a little more colorful in his metaphors. He might have looked at things in a less black and white manner. He might have....might have. 
If if's and and's were pots and pans, the goddamned cliches would probably keep writing lines and making judgments. 
Unfortunately, the Wheatley's of the world have taken all of the goddamned fun out of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. 






57.


Ever heard of life? It's that thing that makes you think about sitting on the beach, sipping mixed drinks out of some sort of tropical fruit with a little paper umbrella while gazing out at the vast expanses of the majestic ocean, feeling the warm breeze roll across your half-naked body. But that's about it, really. You get to think about such things, because that damnable thing called "life" is really about watching the fucking kids, who happen to be out of school all summer. That fucking "life" thing means that instead of taking it easy, instead of having a week free from the everyday struggles of the grind, you get to be even more on the grind, because they'll be in the house 24 hours a day. Add working and going to school part time, and that's the best summer vacation that anyone could possibly want. And that's not really even sarcasm, because on this particular summer vacation, it all takes place in your head. Sadly, anyone who has a knack for storytelling or writing will agree that the reality of things is almost never as good as it sounds in the imagination or on paper. 
So as I sit back and "feel the sand on my toes," I'm just one square inch away from doing in with the whole bloody process and seeing just how much pressure can build up in an oil tank before it makes the house into a smoldering wreck. 
Ah....A campfire! Camping would certainly make for a wonderful vacation.....

Eleven Hours.

"Be able to notice all the confusion between fact and opinion that appears in the news."
~ Marilyn vos Savant

55.

What I feel about the situation ultimately doesn't matter, as there's not a damned thing that I can do about it. I can speculate, sure. I can count days, place blame, write short little essays, but in the end, much like all things of the past, the moment is forever lost and Delorians don't run on garbage. 

My mother's death isn't something that gets brought up a lot. I'm not even sure why. I guess it's because people have this ingrained sensibility that talking about things that are considered "taboo" is...well...taboo. It's completely absurd, if you ask me. I mean, leave it to a few radically unstable people in the world, and now everyone dances around certain subjects like life will end right then and there if they get brought up. 

She died when I was old enough to realize, rationalize and compartmentalize what that meant in the grand scheme of things, but still young enough to hold grudges and blame everyone but those responsible. Hey, it happens. It's not fair, but it happens. If that's not a song lyric, then I don't know what is. 

Truth be told, I don't remember much about her, other than the obvious. Just that little bit that was over-the-top. Sad to say, but the subtleties of that woman's existence are forever lost to those that knew her before I came into the picture. Those that "knew her best," I would dare to say. Me? I don't think I ever knew her at all, really. Even to this day, I don't ever say her name, as I didn't really know her as a "person." There's just this vague idea of a shadowy grey-spot where this instrumental force should have been. I'm getting ahead of myself. I think I should just tell the goddamned story. 

My mother was a depressing human being. I guess it wasn't helped any by the fact that she also thought of herself this way, which basically made her meaner than a sack full of rabid weasels, and subsequently lead to her always needing to feel like the victim. I guess that to her, everything in life was somehow stacked against her, which means that she could sit back and take no responsibility for anything that took place around her. 

I guess that's why she drank so goddamned much. On some level, she knew good and damned well what was taking place, she was just too terrified of ever having to own up to any of it to make any real or rational change. In all honesty, the thing I remember most about the woman was the booze. If a writer writes and a painter paints, then a self-destructive single woman with the mind of a teenager and an inability to grasp the basic principles of her own actions drinks. I guess that in a lot of uncompromisingly real ways, the booze was her way of keeping things at bay. It was a tool to her. Not only was it the prime method of her own undoing, but it was ultimately what she used to write, paint, chisel and weave her own tale. 

Throughout the years, I've wondered all kinds of strange things concerning her passing. For one, I never attended her funeral. This has led me to believe, on several occasions, that I may have been lied to about her passing. Anyone that knew me well enough at the time would have known that once I received anything even resembling closure with her, that I wouldn't have looked any deeper into the situation. It's not even remotely unreasonable that anyone who cared about me in the slightest would have concocted such a story to keep me away from her. However morbid that sounds, the reality of having lived it is all the more unsettling. Hell, even to this very day, I've never even bothered to check up on the tale. If it was all hocus-pocus, I accepted it. 

Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, it would have seemed that someone in a situation like that, living the lie, the nightmare, the confusion, would have learned at a very early age to stay the hell away from the booze. And if you were talking about someone other than myself, you'd more than likely be right. For whatever reasons, I ended up picking up the bottle, as well. Hell, in a lot of ways, I'm worse in that department than she ever was. I've picked up the bottle, the can, the grass, the powder, the pills, the little sheets of magical paper, the mushrooms. I'm not exactly sure what all of that means from a psychological standpoint, but I'm sure that there's a strong case for "mommy-issues" lodged in there somewhere. 

Last, but certainly not least, I think that in some way, she completely altered my perceptions of people as a whole. After all, parents are the child's model for normalcy. That was the bag that I was left holding, and much like the fantastical lie of the fat man that brings gifts every year in December, I've been carrying it ever since. I got a peek behind the curtain, and I have never been able to see anything but Oz ever since. 

For what it's worth, I think that everyone needs some sort of tool. I think that ice cream works for some people. I think that others carve life into the daily wood with exercise, others dance. People make music, they look to others, they climb large rocks, or jump out of machines that move at the speed of sound, miles above the ground. But the daily art of living can't be crafted without a tool of some sort. Even if that tool happens to be the memory of someone that you can't quite remember ever loving, but can't help but realize the impact that they had on your continued march forward into oblivion. 

54.

3397.
There was no more reason for it.

It could have been anything, really. After all, there were at least 3396 before it, but after having read through so many; seeing the way that a mind works when it clearly isn't working at all... I knew, I just fucking knew...This was the one.

The Catch Up: Part Two

This is for the missing prompts from Week Six.

"There's place and means for every man alive."
~ William Shakespeare

26.

I'm not really sure that I remember much about where I was born. In fact, I only have flashes of people, the inside of a house, a room, maybe some hints of feelings...But memories? Real, static, indisputable memories? Not one. I know the name of the town. I could drive you there if I were so inclined to do so, and possibly had a map. But I couldn't have told you a single fucking thing about how life there operates up until the time that I was about...oh, I don't know...18 years old. And now? Now that I've been back there; seen what it's like? I wouldn't want to. 

But I will, if nothing more than for the sake of posterity. 

I'm a hillbilly. I've never made any attempt to hide that fact. I've also never understood this backwards-ass fascination with, and assumption that, this is somehow a wonderful thing. Now, I've never pointed a shotgun at some jackass and told him to "git off'n my propr'ty," or taken a large swill of moonshine from a clay jug with nothing but three large X's on the side, but I was born just off the Blue Ridge Parkway in the mountains Western North Carolina and that qualifies me..."good 'n proper."

This surprises a lot of people, as I "have no accent," and people say things like "I never would have guessed." I'm not sure if everyone that I meet is fucking ignorant, or if it's just me, but I took offense to that kind of jive for a lot of my life. That was, of course, until I went back there. See, I was of the opinion that mountains are majestic and beautiful, and that people who choose to reside in those areas probably know something that the rest of us don't. I learned that every stereotype has a starting point, I guess. 

My first impression of the town of my former residence was that I had somehow mistakenly taken the exit ramp that said "Hell" instead of my intended destination. 

At this point, I feel that it is prudent to stop and shed some light on something. The reason I can't really recall any time in this place is that I don't think that I spent very long in it. Aside from these "flashes" and vague recollections, all I can recall of my childhood took place in a city setting. From what I can gather, my dad was one of those people who just saw himself somewhere else and made damned sure that he got there. Or out of there....however you want to put it. And as we can see from where I left off, he had plenty of reason. 

Now where was I? Oh, yeah:

 "Hell."

This place had absolutely nothing that I was used to dealing with, save for a K-Mart that had a ludicrously cracked parking-lot-area-thing that was becoming overgrown with all sorts of drying grass and weeds. I should also ask you to keep in mind that K-Mart was in steady decline at this point. I guess they've somewhat made a resurgence in the time between then and now, but at the time, the place looked like something out the goddamned Omega Man. Seriously...I half expected Charlton Heston's crazy ass to come hurtling out of the store at any moment carrying a bag of vampire killing supplies. Other than that, this was one of those one-stoplight kinda' places. 

This was only made worse for me by the fact that everyone young in the town seemed to be making this place some sort of amazing social locale. Cars in varying shades of ill upkeep were parked all over, windows rolled down, doors open. It was the place to be as far as this town went, and as far as my mind could fathom at the time, that was pretty goddamned sad. Even to this day, some part of me will never understand why, with all of the goddamned woods around that place, one of those people weren't enterprising enough to build some sort of fort, clubhouse, shed, anything, out in the wilderness and have the beer chugging-redneck-Friday out there. I'm fairly sure it would have cut at least one person's arrest records in half. 

But that was where I was. The whole town pretty much looked like that goddamned parking lot did. You could see it in the people's eyes whenever they bothered to look at you. Something in them was saying "This is it. Life will never be any more than this. I'm resigned to it." Which is actually both sad and a little pathetic, if you think about it. On the one hand, I can understand poverty, crushing defeat and lack of morale...but on the other? My fucking dad was one of these people. Sure, he may be complete bastard that I'm almost 100% is at the very top of someone's kill list, but he had to be. He worked hard. studied hard and mercilessly demolished any poor jackass that stood between himself and getting out of that goddamned waste-of-space town. 

These days, I'm not exactly sure what became of that town. I've recently been in contact with my father, which will put me back in touch with that town, as I have to put in a request for a new birth certificate.  

From time to time, I've wondered how, if at all, things like the internet, cell phones, this whole suburban fascination with urban strife and things of that nature have affected that town. I wonder if it has grown any, changed any. But never enough to want to go back. I can safely say that I am proud to have come from there, but will never be proud of going back. For me, it's the pride of a successful prison escapee. An ordeal that I survived. 

27. 

I don't think I've ever felt entirely "secure" in my adult life. I'm not saying this because I have some deep-seated psychological trauma that gives me a complex, but more because I'm a transient. Always have been. 

Since my mother died, way-on-back, and I was told by my ever-understanding father that it was "his way or the highway," my life has basically been just that: The highway. 

I've lived in more towns than I have fingers and toes, and more than that, I've lived in just about every corner of each of those towns. I've conned my way into the best neighborhoods that money can buy and worked hard, busting my ass, to only be able to afford the cheapest of rents offered. 

That being said, there's nowhere that I've discovered that offers me the security that most people take for granted. 

I've come to understand a basic truth about who I am and the things that I've seen transpire, and it basically boils down to situations being beyond the control of the people who are living in them. 

Economies crash, tossing once-stable and loving families into the poor house. People sell drugs as an enterprise and live, comfortably, in the lap of "star" luxury. 

There is static everywhere, and you must be quick on your toes, if not fleet of feet to survive. 

The Catch Up.

This will be the first of many posts that are to catch up on my past assignments. Have no fear, I will have all of them done by the time requested.

This post is for the missing Week 5 prompts (which is just one.)

"Basketball is like war in that offensive weapons are developed first, and it always takes a while for the defense to catch up."
Red Auerbach

Prompt 25. 

I keep waiting to get an email. Hell, it probably won't even be an email, as nothing that comes from the school ever is. Well, not unless you count all of the times I get alerts that are posts from Goldfine, or when they need me to do something about my goddamned financial aid (which they have all of the paperwork on file for - I swear that their staff is incompetent). It will probably come in the form of a letter that will inevitably arrive late, causing whatever action that needs to take place a waste of time, as school is almost over. In a way, I am relieved. I have unburdened myself of the weight of the culinary arts program, and I am, all at once, both relieved and curious about my future. The letter that I'm waiting for is going to be a warning of missed days, due to the fact that I haven't shown up to class in two weeks. 

And why should I, really? After having given it ample thought, I have decided that I want to focus more on my writing. I'm semi-decent at it, enjoy it and aside from cooking (which had only ever been a job to me in the first place) it's something that I've consistently done throughout my life. I feel that it's high time that I do something for myself that I actually enjoy, and not something that will simply earn me a paycheck. For all that's worth, I could be working at a fucking gas station for the rest of my days. 

I'm sure that the world at large won't be too shocked when word of this gets around. I am, after all, known for my uncanny ability to move on from project to project. My attentions are limited, and cannot be spread too thin, after all. 

As I wait for the proverbial hammer to fall, I study. 

Unbeknownst to the world at large, I have been planning. Plotting my eventual coup on the the one thing that  has been my bread and butter (ah, the puns!) for so long. Yes, this is not the typical me; wasting time and doing things on impulse. 

I've figured out that the only way to truly achieve the success that I desire is by careful planning. It has dawned on me that most of the credits that I've been earning are essentially worthless to me, so the first step was to enroll in nothing but classes that offer transfer credits. As it currently stands, I'm all registered and ready to go. The next step was a little more complicated. I had to figure out where I would go that wouldn't require me moving, as I have little to no money. Which means that moving and completing a four year degree would be out of the picture. That plan is still in the works, but I have an eye on a couple of places. 

The liberation here is astounding. I never quite feel as free as when I'm doing something that completely takes me out of "the comfort zone." The fact that the horizon is blurred and seemingly out of reach has awakened a sense of adventure and promise within me. 

Oh, I can just hear the bullshit now, though. 

"This is what you always do," some might say.

"You don't want to have any commitment in your life, so you jump from place to place, project to project, never having to fulfill any of these unobtainable goals."

Unfortunately,  I don't subscribe well to most philosophy. It would seem to me that once a goal is reached, it becomes a moot point. I would have to say that working towards a goal is probably the best feeling in the world. After all, many people out there in the vast expanses of the world in which we live fail at goals all of the time. That doesn't mean that what they have done in the time between starting and failing the goal wasn't a wonderful or positive experience. But I digress....

So now I'm just waiting. 

Waiting for that letter to come. Waiting for my GPA to plummet. Waiting for that crash that always heralds my greatest climbs. I find it hard to shine without darkness present. 

Eleven Cigarettes.

"Giving up smoking is the easiest thing in the world. I know because I've done it thousands of times."
~ Mark Twain

I slowly open my eyes to the new day, and the first thing that I see is an ashtray. I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings; the sensation starting to hit me. My eyes slowly start their inevitable crawl towards the two cigarettes lying there beside said ashtray, a white lighter leaning up against them.

After dropping the kids off at school, I look down into the cup holder. There sits a single filtered cigarette. A red lighter is sitting next to it, and the ashtray in the Jeep is looking extremely full. 

I have just eaten breakfast. With the food slowly starting it's process of digestion, I notice that something is missing. Though I can't quite figure out what that is, I reach an arm across the bed, and pull the ashtray over beside me. 

I'm in the hospital again. This is the second time in my life that I've had a collapsed lung. They tell me things that I already know, like "tall people with extended chest cavities are prone to pnuemathorax." As I lay here in my pristine hospital bed, I look at the counter beside me. There are no cigarettes. There is no ashtray.  

I'm five minutes out of the hospital. It's been almost a solid seven days since I've seen a cigarette. As I get into the passenger seat of the car, I am relieved to have been handed one. I turn my gaze to the window, not looking at the ashtray. 

It's almost time for dinner. I know that this process with take approximately one to one and a half hours. It will be a while before I can come back up here. As I scan the room for anything that I might need to take with me, I look at the bedside table. Sitting neatly on it, are a pack of cigarettes, a brown lighter and an ashtray. 

The sun has decided to set. I now have a beer in my hand and know that there is another one waiting for me in the freezer. As I take my first sip, I survey the room to make sure that I won't have to leave again. Turns out that I won't. There are thirteen cigarettes on the rolling table. I will probably end up spilling the ashtray.  

As I turn on Return of the Living Dead to watch before bed, I tell my girlfriend that I love her. I look down the length of the bed, and see my dog laying on his side, snoring. The room is dark but for the light of the television screen, and as I turn my head to face the bedside table, I see two cigarettes waiting patiently for me to start again in the morning. I roll over, sickened by the ashtray. 

The Tens.

“Story seems to say that everything happens for a reason and I want to say, No, it doesn’t.”
~  David Shields

49.

I am not allowed to speak freely. In almost every sense of the word, I find that I have to censor myself. On a daily basis, this doesn't bother me. I often think that everything around me is some sort of miraculous farce, so the part of timidly coy comes about as naturally as fish swimming. However, most of the important things that need to be said never are. I suppose that I could always write some sort of mysterious memoir, changing the names and places of everyone and everything I know, but in the end, isn't that a bit of censorship as well? It would almost be worth being sued to air all of the dirty laundry that has made it's way into my hamper at one point in time or another. 

I woke up this morning and I knew that today would somehow be special. I feel this way almost every day of my life, partially because I'm almost assuredly clinically delusional, but also because I'm neurotically optimistic. In fact, I'm so sure of the fact that I'll eventually "rise above it all," that I let almost nothing strike me as overly important. That being said, the routine remained the same, and it goes a little something like this: 

6:45 AM

Dog nose touches my nose. I wake up, wondering who I am, where I am, and how I got here. Three minutes later, I have completely redesigned myself, figured out the wheres and the hows. Everything is not as it should be, but I deal with that and start my day. I take the dog out, relieve myself and feed said dog. The day has begun it's monotonous turn. 

7:00 AM - ????

At some point, it has dawned on me that I've done this before. In fact, I have it down to a science. The real question that's taking place here, is why? I start pondering all the usual existential bullshit that everyone who has a moderately working brain thinks of: what are we here for, what does it all mean, when does it stop, how long can a person stare at the sun before going blind? 

Melancholy sets in. The inevitable conclusion for a thankless state of being. In some form, I'm keeping myself from thinking about all of the things that rightfully matter. The inner prose that is my Iliad has started to write itself out as some sort of awful show for Adult Swim. Clearly, there is static. 

AFTERNOON

More and more often, I find that if I do enough to keep myself busy, I only succeed in keeping busy. This presents two trains of thought: I don't believe in working to stay busy just for the sake of keeping busy and secondly....I really, really, really don't like doing anything that doesn't result in a positive outcome. That being stated, I sit down to write.

LATE AFTERNOON

I am not allowed to speak freely. In almost every sense of the word, I find that I have to censor myself. On a daily basis, this doesn't bother me. I often think that everything around me is some sort of miraculous farce.......

47.




If he wasn't peering out at the world from a window in a rubber room, then in his estimation, he was probably doing okay. Aside from chain-smoking and a twice weekly drinking habit, there really wasn't too terribly much in the way of mental health issues. In the short term, life was surprisingly easy; domesticity and the life eternal moved along at a snail's pace, each piece falling fairly transparently where it was supposed to go; the turning hands of a clock growing old. 
As he sits in the smoky room that life has become, the thoughts of nature set in, and he wonders just what exactly nature intended with man. See, the laws of nature state that the most powerful creatures conquers, eat and breed....but that isn't the case with human beings. So far as he can tell, mind will sometimes overcome the physical, anyone who can steal can eat and...well...any asshole can procreate. So what's with this whole "natural order of things?" As the light of the day fades, the answer remains elusive; the drive to be what nature intended at war with the details. 
He looks around the room, pondering what all of this garbage is, how it fits into the grand scheme of things and whether or not you really, truly can take it all with you. After all, death, it would seem, is the other great mystery. 
Not knowing where this train of thought is taking him, he lights a cigarette and ponders more pressing matters. Indeed, he wonders just how much more of life he actually can take before ending up looking out of the window of that sanitarium window, because...let's face it, some people just aren't fit enough to survive. And knowing that, he ponders, once again, on whether or not he is  the "fit" type. Seems so easy in all the nature shows, doesn't it? The big cat stands in the tall grass, waiting for the right moment. Suddenly, up look the caribou, sensing, not smelling, that something is amiss. Then, all at once, the cat leaps forth from the grass, running at breakneck speed, chasing down the rightfully food, and...voila, that's life, kid. 
Seems rather cut and dry, really. He explicitly understands that the large cat doesn't allow the caribou to mercilessly drive him mad with the sounds of chewing cud. He also realizes that the cat doesn't enable the caribou to be more than anything that it naturally is....which isn't really much in the grand scheme of things. The caribou is weak, not terribly fast and probably thinks that it's existence is much more important than it actually is. Indeed, it's simply dinner. 
So with that thought in mind, he snubs the cigarette out in the ashtray and begins to reexamine his role in things. He finds it amusing that there may actually be something flawed in his logic after all, but that thought no longer bothers him. Indeed, it's quite the opposite. All of his mistakes are his to make, should he intend to make them. Life, he understands, is only as bad as he allows it to be, and can be shaped in any direction that he chooses to take it.  And that is what separates him from the caribou. It's simply survival of the fittest. There is no room for remorse. 






43. 


I think that I've just about reached that "point of no return." I'm almost positive that it hasn't completely sunken in yet, but it most assuredly will. See, there's a chatter in the air around here that never seems to stop and try as I may to have a positive attitude towards it, I just can't manage to fake a smile that doesn't scare me anymore. It's all about redirection, redistribution and spreading things out a little too evenly thin. Call it...emotional socialism, if you will. Today, we are planning a coup.


I'm not sure where it all went wrong, now that I look back on it. I'll probably never know, but it seems as if it was the second that I walked through the door. I somewhat recall there being an air of excitement, as if life were beginning anew. I think that if I were in my right mind at the time, I would have realized that something was wrong right then and there. Life doesn't ever really start anew for anyone. It's like when I watch TV and some jackass couple are "putting their marriage back together" after one or the other of them has done something terribly stupid to the other. That shit has no place in reality. You never forget that, and in some way, you make the person who's trying to do the "making up" pay for that every day of their lives. 
So there I was, living the television dream. I was reinventing myself, and this time, I would do things the right way. As life would have it, nothing worked out like that in the slightest.
I'm not exactly sure when all the drama began. I'm fairly sure that it came on subtly, as no one really reveals to you that they're completely over the edge all at once unless they plan to kill you. Come to think of it, I'm amazed that I ended up being the one that made it through the whole process...but I'm getting ahead of myself. See...I was totally dedicated to the lie. In some way, I had completely convinced myself that whole suburbanite-facsimile dream was an accomplish-able feat....and I'm not the only one. I can only imagine the silent screams of a million accidental daddies that regret having had "the intercourse" after years of trying to hold a dysfunctional family together. Hell, the women too. Sadly, years of celluloid poisoning have completely brainwashed most Americans to the point where the pin pricks the skin, but they don't feel a fucking thing. And that's what I'm talking about here.  Anyway, back to the point at hand....
At some point, there was an argument.....and it never went away. Every time this happens, it's the same goddamned thing. In fact, it has kinda taken a life of it's own. Were I still in it, I would swear to you that the house had almost absorbed the conversation and could be heard to this very day, playing out the "nuh-uh, you!" and "nah-nah-nah-nah-nah's" of what would eventually land me in the spot that I am now. I mean, when it got bad, really, really bad, you could have taken a recording of the first argument, set it on a table, pushed PLAY, and gotten the whole thing verbatim all over again. And this went on for years. 
You would think that me, being the sensible man that I used to be, would have just up and left the whole goddamned circus of it behind. And you wouldn't be wrong. I tried, in fact, on several occasions to just do-away with the whole goddamned mess of it. The constant screaming, the unease that shrouded the hallways of the "family house" to the point where everyone was as timid as a fucking mouse and stepped around the important aspects of life like they were walking down a flight of stairs made of glass. If taken to separate rooms and asked if they were happy, each member of that god forsaken place would have resounded, unanimously (for fucking once), a great big ol' "FUCK NO!!"
But I couldn't do it. At times, I won't lie...it was because of the money. I just didn't have the money to leave. Other times, it was blackmail. I was once told that I couldn't have the goddamned Jeep that I had paid for, because it wasn't in my name and that the cops would be called on me if I took my own property. Other times, I was struck with a chord of genuine emotion. I stayed because I could once more believe that "all could be forgiven" 


And eventually, it was.


Two years ago today, I shot her five times in the head. This immediately did three things: 1. It got me out of the house and the situation that I had, until that point, only fantasized about leaving. 2. It took care of the whole "what am going to do with the rest of my life" question, as I am now rotting in a six by twelve cell. And last, but certainly not least, 3. She finally did what I always wanted her to do, which was be fucking quiet. That being done, I eventually learned to forgive. It was forgetting that was the hard part. 
So on this day, the anniversary of my liberation, I am staging the grandest coup of them all. Since I can no longer bear to wittiness my own smile in the mirror, the fact that I can never again see the light of day through any medium other than this murky window, I'm going to tie this here sheet around that light fixture up there and call it day....

Alien-Nation

"It is difficult to produce a television documentary that is both incisive and probing when every twelve minutes one is interrupted by twelve dancing rabbits singing about toilet paper."
~ Rod Serling




The damned thing just won't stop making noise. I mean, it's not enough that this requires some sort of concentration, but the added weight of the constant noise is almost enough to just make me say "To Hell with it." As I stand here literally holding my dick, I wonder just what in the hell is taking place...and why I'm just now starting to see the problem.
The darkness is almost all-encompassing, and as I try to focus with what little light is coming through the doorway behind me, it dawns on me that this might very well be as tricky of a situation as I'm apt to be in this evening. The alcohol in my veins has gotten me a bit wobbly, and as I steady myself, I hear it coming through the door behind me. It is making all kinds of strange noises, and at times, seems as if it might be choking on something; perhaps the sound of an animal with a smokers cough.  Suddenly, there is a nudge on my left leg. I look down, just in time to slightly stagger to the right. Oddly enough, there is nothing there. I may have ingested enough hops to anesthetize a small horse, but I'm not hallucinating..mentally or physically. Something touched my goddamned leg. That's when I hear it on the tub beside me; the thump of feet landing on the rim, that hollow "thump." I look over, and staring back at me are two gleaming, crystal-blue eyes. It is the bathroom monster, and he has come to witness "the release."
As usual, I ignore him, focusing on the task at hand. It's been at least 45 minutes since I've relieved myself, and now is the time. I have not a moment to pare on silly animal and it's strange bathroom behaviors. I take aim....
Suddenly, it's between my legs, both of it's front paws on the rim of the cold porcelain throne, staring down into the dark and cold depths. Unfortunately, it's time has come.
I purge, releasing a night's worth of toxins, hops, malt, barley and (I'm sure) some degree of water, hoping to hell that it doesn't land on the goddamned thing's miserable little head. As I tilt my head back down from the ceiling, I notice that it isn't there anymore. My feelings of both guilt and pleasure all removed, I notice that he is, once again, perched upon the edge of the tub....just in the prime spot to watch the toilet dance it's roundabout dance, flushing my urine, wasted time, and night's worth of endurance down the tubes.
I really, really, really dislike cats.

Chains.

“I'm not a writer. Ernest Hemingway was a writer. I just have a vivid imagination and type 90 WPM.”
~ Tiffany Madison





It all starts with a thought. This thought could be anything, as are most thoughts, but when trying to cohesively track the though from point A to point B, there needs to be some sort of rationale. Some sort of reason. As I'm not the pen-chewing, lackadaisical type, I'm left with nothing but the sound of silence to help me along....an echo in my head.

****

Nothing more is taking place. I sit idly by, helplessly inclined to start something...anything. The need to finish weighs on me like a nice pair of concrete shoes, circa 1930. The mental prohibition bleakly forcing my cognitive functions into a sleazy speakeasy, where every move is paranoia and everything that comes out is watered down.

****

I stare blankly into oblivion. The wading pool of potential becomes overrun with kelp and crocodiles; a place unfit for a thought to stray. The atmosphere is rife with insects, the air is heavy with moisture. Surely nothing can survive in this humidity, as the moving becomes lethargic. The floundering of land-drawn fish.

****

Finally, inspiration strikes like a a spear through a mammoth hide, and I can relax in the fact that everyone in my mental tribe sup well this evening. As victory surges through every part of my being, I drift into a state that is very much like a plane on auto pilot; my fingers mindlessly pirouetting across the glossy black of the keys with a grace that is majestic and serene. The words flow forth like water from a cracked dike and.....

The writing process.

(This is for the Chained Vignette portion that I was missing)