It should have been enough that I went nose to nose with the drunk. It should have been enough that I thought she had honor to defend. It should have been enough what I was willing to go to if the drunk said another word.
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I would have settled for nothing—no word or email or anything. I would have been happier if she had erased all memory of me without prompting. I didn't need to know, and I would have been better off not knowing why you didn't treat me as a friend. We both know this.
All I wanted to feel afterward was the pressure of my knuckles pushing through plasterboard. Sometimes the sadness piles up so quickly and to such an extent it gets mitigated by anger for the relaxed duration. I went to suck in the hard-to-imagine possible horrors to prove to myself that I could still find humor in the humorless.
I used to walk at night behind bowling alleys and bars.
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Stay in the right lane; notice the critical power lines; keep both hands on the wheel to prevent swerving into traffic cones. The music is thudding blasphemously, designed to deprive you of other sound, which intoxicates the ears into minor states of shock. Don't let the boredom close your eyes, or you'll wake up with just enough time to see and not completely understand the light and shadows reflecting back from the tree wrapped tightly around the skull. The only time left is for dying, not to try to piece together what you see, when what you are physically seeing is that part of your brain that forms adjectives corroborating the visual data it impresses. This then pushes that other part of the brain that interprets what is lying all over my road with broken windshield glass and fragments lying on the dashboard. Still thinking like it still has a function to follow, this is where you end up at the end of the day driving home from Chicago.
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A man literally eats a girl, who hides in some place quiet. A guest, in the kitchen, meets a lackey, who is kept sealed with experimental subjects/slaves. He talks molasses. She may be a willing participant. The monologue contains more than enough social commentary, incorporating a lot of crude, butcher-like, and weak references. This should include more than enough, and almost over-the-top, satire. There's less prosperity; there's nothing to do now, with no clue about eating. This creates a twist, and then assumes finality. Maybe all he thinks—these awake—may not be all off. Here is how it should be built:
The man works a boring blue-collar job for most of his work days, returning to a place where he keeps happy to rant about his day and comment on society. She never seems awake, assured, or "read in." Sometimes she appears to be daydreaming. Ideas, eyes open in front of the frame. The camera pulls away from the subject. Maybe, but more than likely than not
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to show entire body. Find a surgical way to feed and deal with mess, make or make it this guy's first time no experience = bumbling fool, Hell make her a waitress — 40 something smokes too much.
I cannot and will not support any politician funded by any group that has an agenda. Agendas pre-suppose a plan, and if you put a group of people in the think tank long enough, they will find a way and a means to puppet the politician. All of that is what makes a person not want to be involved with politics. What makes it OK for a politician to be backed by any lobbyist group — too ridiculous.
Goddamn Dinosaurs. Why won't the preacher recognize Dinosaurs? How far fetched is it that
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one supernatural entity would create bone holes and leave traces to throw off another follower of another supernatural entity.
I provided her with gas money, not that she was capable to drive at this point. The tumors stopped bleeding weeks ago, and it's not like she was malnourished. All the struggling she put in built some muscle on what's left of her. I bet she will blame me a year from now for not being able to use a wheelchair. The police investigating what happened to the parts missing from her will eventually find the leftovers in the fridge.
"Fucking kids," I said, walking by. The teenager next to me stumbled along. Another urine balloon flew down the hall. What the fuck is with those kinds?
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I was walking to my car with my empty coffee cup and empty Tupperware.
"Hey sexy, shake that ass," screamed the middle school males to the middle school female who were walking to the place where the buses were lined up.
I turned around sharply, and headed towards the males. "What the fuck is wrong with you kids, talking to girls like that? That won't help you lose your virginity."
The state of national disorder is growing; the exponential factors mandate a big fix. In the evangelical cult parade, are there those things—something to laugh at—amidst the pure sadness enveloping this country's fear? No one is willing to analyze the fossils as if they could analyze the basic things. Instead, a wave full of light and noise, every base note interrupting the train of thought, makes conversations hard to follow.
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Smiles, nods, and shrugs. Don't look up.
The Mormons are coming to get you. They watch you where you're sleeping, and no amount of candles or salt will stop them from entering the house.
I haven't decided what to do next.
This world is a man invading a scary place: the urban crawl. Goddess, graphite, charcoal memory of a three-year-old waking me up from a nightmare because she wanted more orange juice. My unconsciousness presented her form as a huge grub worm crawling alongside me. I woke up to my own screaming and her chattering teeth, because she was cold. She wanted more juice. I held her because we are both scared of each other. I apologized, and poured her some juice. I told her, tucked her in, and ...
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... to not be careful when she wakes me up, because I am opening my eyes from a scary place. I hope she never understands the way I interpret her. I hope she never wakes up and thinks the three-year-old jumping on her stomach is an oversized tapeworm that crawled out of her stomach.
Walmart is trying very hard to offend its customers. I seem to remember the debate of "Happy Holidays" vs. "Merry Christmas." The first is less assuming. Both statements assume the one being greeted is celebrating a holiday in the coming days. The first assumes vaguely; the second assumes specifically. From what I remember, they started with "Merry Xmas," changed to "Happy Holidays," and they went back to "Merry Xmas" to try again because their "non-cook" Christian ...
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... consumer got offended, which makes sense, as there was a time where Walmart would have got stoned for attempts at political correctness.
The house had many doors. The writing on the walls was plain, with a specific meaning filling the blank between apex and nadir. The structure of the sentence remains just as important as the words contained within. When all you see are blank pages, it makes sense for them to think something has gone wrong with the world. Global warming—blah fucking blah, too much coffee.
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The decline of Halloween. The children don't dress up; more importantly, parents don't present the motivation for a child to want candy. Parents don't want to deal with dental bills, cavities, or razor blade apples.
The economy that drives the Halloween goods means products are getting cheaper, not just in price but in quality. Those costumes made in America will withstand the test of time, whereas the plastic crap mass-produced now is generic, bland, and prone to deteriorate after one-time use.
What sense does that make? If a little effort is not going to last, then why produce it? If costumes are clothing, and not consumer goods, why is it necessary to outsource to keep up with a holiday? The Day of the Dead never used to be this consumer driven. This land of the bored: blah fucking blah. The cartoon isn't as funny as it used to be since the mermen were let out of their cages.
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The call to it's arms should be heard, the blind will stay blind and no amount of water walking is going to change that.
Turkey-day is upon the Nation. This event sparks the spending of saving and drives the economy for the entire world of one day of gift chucking and mythology twisted by thousands of years of group think. Does the parent consider myths when stomping through the department stores? Does the concept of nativity scene predate the birth of Christ to come to be wind when reaching up high on a shelf for the last one of its kind still left in stock.
The turkey almost represents as much blood shed as the crucifix. But what about american heritages? You might ask? This old story is playing out spun out by the rich people
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...to confuse the average person into spending. This is the byproduct of social dependence on ignorance, the scary reality that Americans live with. Turkey day is not about thanks—how could it be? Ask what's left of the Native Americans what they are thankful for. This answer is drastically different than a poll of one hundred middle-class housewives.
The train leaves on time. The rails are the holding borders of reality. An empty train station just before Last Call, before the pure light starts bellowing up the flesh pipes of the brutes. The burning taste of stomach acid is a welcoming place to enter for the holiday season.
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Happy Winter Solstice is the time for hanging your tree upside down, eating a lot of food, and denouncing Jesus as a possibility. The survival of this holiday is not about repetition. The lights and tree go up the same day every year. The glowing lawn ornaments use up electricity and serve little purpose other than to advertise the holiday and tell the passerby: "If you are not with us, then you are going to hell with Santa Claus." The mythology of this day is carved by the dreary nature of group think over time. Generations of the telephone game have turned it into a single day that drives the economy for the rest of the year. What would myths say now? The god scenery is not from the hole in the collective knowledge where they got stuck. They want to hold the hand of the chopper and guide them to the light of the blue ...
...to the light of the blue light. Redemption is in the discount the day write-off. Certification is by 'buy one, get one free.' Something-for-nothing drives the happy Christians to stampede to death at Walmart worker.
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