A fight to the death in the tunnel of love

If there is one thing I am attracted to in a woman it is when she uses a Bumpit in her hair.  I once worked at a very high profile jewelry store in a commercial mall where I frequently racked up millions of dollars in sales – earning a commission on every penny sold which I would immediately turn around and invest in low risk mutual funds in wise anticipation of the market dipping.  Each day, while walking through the mall on the way to the jewelry store I would pass a Mexican restaurant which employed literally thousands of tempestuous waitresses.  During this moment in my daily sojourn I would turn my head in their direction and walk using only my peripheral vision.  I would pay particular attention to a delightful and full-figured hostess (as full as a ham on rye sandwich stuffed with delicious meat and dripping condiments) who happened to sport a Bumpit.  I do not believe she ever caught my lecherous leers and likely knew nothing about the rich array of fantasy she inspired.  I imagined climbing her Bumpit enhanced hair like a mountain, only to lose my foot on some uncertain strands and fall screaming to my death.  I imagined her lowering her head and charging me like a bull and crushing my stomach with the iron like strength of her Bumpit where I would then subsequently die of internal bleeding and in extreme pain.  I imagined a swarm of enraged killer wasps flying out from her hive like hair and stinging me millions of times until those wonderful final, feverish moments. 

Day after day I would stare into that glorious restaurant, imagining what I would say to her if given even half the chance.  I wanted to reach my hand out with the promise of taking her away from all the sweaty resignation of common, everyday life.  In that scenario I liked to imagine her pulling out a heretofore hidden machete (perhaps carefully stocked away inside her towering Bumpit hair) and swiftly chopping off my arm at the elbow Jason Vorhees style.  After years of careful consideration I finally decided I would walk right up to her and say, “Hi, is that a Bumpit in your hair or are you just happy to see me?”  I said this out loud to myself in a quiet and red colored room to get a feel for how the words sounded when making contact with the air.  The cleverness of this line caused me to erupt in childlike fits of laughter and the joy was so great that I was only able to quash my enthusiasm by taking a sharp and sterilized Exacto knife [which I’d pilfered from a local middle school science lab after doing a presentation there on monotremes (egg-laying mammals) – a subject which I became something of an expert on after a lengthy study abroad and following several papers which were published in widely respected periodicals Scientific American and Popular Science] and making three 5.9 inch cuts along the inside of my left thigh.  I then doused the cuts in rubbing alcohol and sat on my bed staring at a hole in the wall where I was convinced lived a man who had seven kids, each of them telling me to commit unspeakable acts.  When I finally worked up the courage to step foot inside that restaurant and speak to this woman I was crushed to find she had quit.  For the following eleven weeks I ate 9 double cheeseburgers a day in order to cope with the loss.  At the end of each day I would look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and tell myself it was all going to be okay and one day I would be able to love again. 

There is a big ugly hole in things and I do not know how to fix it.  This cannot be what was intended.  I once called it a social disease (cleverly quoting from Bon Jovi) and was told I sounded like a Republican.  What is this horrifyingly empty life we create for ourselves?  Every single day I have at least one moment which borders on sheer panic as I confront things so profoundly empty and repulsive.  Some of these things want to reach out and touch me.  Some of them even have intimate knowledge of me and are so blind they actually believe there is a point.  There is nothing inside any of them and sometimes I have to wonder if they are real or simply a terrifying illusion from a tortured dreamer’s mind.  In those instances I am not sure who exactly the dreamer is…but I think I know where he or she or it may be living.  Oh god please get away please don’t touch me don’t come near me why do you talk to me why do they all talk to me how can they not see how disgusting it is how wrong all of it is why all this waste and emptiness how we can go on thinking that everything is okay fuck it is so repulsive it is so fucking repulsive please don’t let me see it anymore oh god what is happening all the thoughts inside my head are crashing against one another I can’t think at all I can’t see anything except horrible ugly fucking faces and one massive creeping soul that eats every fucking thing exists only to eat and hate and fuck endless fucking oh please oh god oh please what is happening to me

At long last the trailer for The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears was released yesterday. I watched it 267 times while at work and an additional 471 times while relaxing in my posh flat and sipping on a glass of Pinot Noir.  I have often found myself wishing my life would begin to mimic the plot outline for a Giallo but so far this has not come to pass.  Needless to say this is going to be one of those movies I look forward to almost as much as my own demise and the months will pass like millennia until I am finally privileged to view whatever limited release it may have.  Additionally, since the waiting and anticipation has been so intense – and coupled with my passion for the horror genre, Giallos and anything with a surrealist kinetic style – I will surely convince myself I love this film regardless of how truly amazing or truly awful it is.  I wish I had a future, anywhere.     

It’s that time of year again ladies and germs!  The time has come where I prepare a list of my favorite movies, music and reads of two-zero-thirteen.  My lists are going to set the whole town on fire!  Hold on to your asses because these next few weeks are going to see a lot of great updates and hog-wrangling excitement!  It’s going to be the literary equivalent of someone shooting their spunk into your eye and then slapping you across the face with a lightly seasoned poached salmon.  Can anyone guess right now what my favorite movie of ’13 is?  I will give you all a hint: it could be a cute and clever movie about slugs that enter a racing competition.  Still can’t figure it out?  Don’t worry, in time all will be revealed.  However I can for sure tell you that The Strange Colour of Your Body’s Tears will definitely be on my list of the best movies of 2014!  Already a freebie and the year hasn’t even started yet!

That’s right, you keep pumping em' out and we’ll keep paying for em'. 

Could it really be about the plight of the Native American Indian?

Today is a day we devote to stuffing large amounts of fattening foods down our gaping maws and wondering what stores we are going to frequent afterward in order to secure the most righteous deals on merchandise.  Eating is such an amazing experience.  On Thanksgiving I like to eat until I am stuffed and then I like to stick my fingers down my throat like a crazed infant and vomit that succulent combination of turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, yams, and pumpkin pie into the great porcelain bowl like a fascinating piece of abstract performance art.  Few things in life give me as much pleasure as tossing my cookies.  This cleans my stomach out so I can commence with the ritualistic binge drinking.  I purchase several 18 packs of Tecate (cervesa con caracter) ahead of time as well as several bottles of inexpensive red wine.  As the night progresses I drink and I puke and I am reminded of all the steadfast realism I see when I move the red curtains and look out my window at night.  I cannot say why but for some reason the sight of the distant street light fills me with incomparable dread, especially when it is green.  I don’t know where I was when I realized my life is a dream.  Funny how secrets travel.  I have been considering purchasing a gigantic box set of the show Gatchaman but who knows if I will ever have the intestinal fortitude to go through with such an audacious act.  Who amongst us has not harbored fantasies involving being subjected to electrocution by raven haired goddesses from the south?  I once met an individual claiming to be a deity from another dimension who was half man, half woman.  This person offered me gifts which were blinding blue in color.  I was afraid to look at this individual.  When describing me, many people say music was my first love.  I understand the hyperbole but in actuality my first love was a girl named Melissa.  She would call me “Raisin-Bran” on occasion as a diminutive jest on my name.  She’s dead now. 

What I have written above has absolutely no value.  It is not remotely entertaining nor is it in any way, shape or form an insightful commentary on Thanksgiving or life in general.  However I can recall with numbing clarity watching the movie Carrie for the first time when I was a wee youngster.  My mother was in the room with me and when I inquired about the opening scene – which I did not understand at all at the time – she refused to elucidate on the subject.  Despite this, I never became a large fan of Brian DePalma’s work; Carrie is still my favorite movie of his (though it is far down on the list of my favorite Stephen King books).   Those who know me best know I have very little use for holidays.  One does not need a designated day on the calendar to eat like a pig.  This is obvious because people do it every day, me included.  A person also has the capacity to be thankful for anything on any given day (I think).  These days the only benefits I find in holidays are the days off from work they provide (admittedly, this is a huge boon) and the TV specials.  A Garfield Thanksgiving still beats my hirsute ass into puckering submission.  Why must we all be such dull programmed automatons?  What has happened to everyone in the entire world?  Strangle me please!  If she were standing before me I would beg this of her.  How I adore Italian food.  Carrie is phenomenal though.  I must buy this motion picture on blu ray immediately that I may watch it 59 times in a row every Tuesday for the next 17 years.  Only then will I ever have a prayer of advancing my invented universal language (consisting of tongue clicks and guttural noises) into the more scholarly circles at Harvard and Yale which determine the future of our fair planet.  I listened to a lot of Vicente Fernandez this week.  Of his more recent albums folks often cite Para Siempre as the best and though it is excellent I think I may actually prefer its follow-up Necesito De Ti.  If only she would punish me for this transgression.  As previously alluded to, Italian food is so glorious. 

I witnessed two things of nigh indescribable ugliness this week and they were both in the same place.  I will never forget those eyes.  Grotesque, disgusting bulging eyes.  They were the eyes of some ancient evil and belonged to a hideous, bloated bird like creature with an insatiable hunger.  The worst thing in those eyes was the knowing.  There was a definitive knowledge and acknowledgement there despite all the protestations of innocence.  Time had elapsed; it could not have been simpler.  Before me, the life of a monster not worth preserving.  If only I’d had two freshly sharpened Ticonderoga number 2 pencils at hand then those repulsive ungrateful eyes would not have bothered me so.  And what is behind door number 2?  Why, only a glorious pale entitlement.  A giant tall glass spoiled milk.  That is a brilliant and shockingly apt description.  This thing was looking for ways to exterminate innocence and bring an end to something pure, if for no other reason than this thing has nothing of value underneath all the artificial niceties.  This slime covered alien beast is equally as horrible and intrinsically wrong as the bird like monster.  The violence inflicted in the past was deserved and not nearly enough.  All those fancy toys cannot hide the truth and that is true ugliness.  No crossing rivers for this thing, only fire.  I became complicit in these acts and I may never be able to come to terms with this fact.  The only hope of salvation lies in offering the innocents an opportunity for retribution. 

It is hard to believe a year has passed since she went away.  For the entirety of that year I was unable to listen to her music.  Today, finally, I was able to listen again.  As always, beautiful.  Wherever she is, I hope it is a better place than this.    

This year – as in most years of my utterly failed life – I am most thankful for luchadoras and denier, but especially the combination of those two.  

I made a vow on the night of their deaths...

My mind reeled and careened off the tracks due to an assaultive wave of desire of passion.  There were colors – so many colors – and oh, how they glistened.  It was cave walls made of soft rainbow clay and I wanted to rest my cheek against them and taste all the different shades.  So many explorers in this vast and disturbing universe yet surely none would ever be capable of scaling the great walls that daily threaten to envelop every decent thing which stands.  Some would no doubt try and discredit my eyewitness testimony and point to the blood and butterfly generating chemicals which were surging to critical points of contact in my grotesque body.  Please forgive the endless longings yet how I yearned to hear the words.  “Patetico!” “Feo!” “Asco!”  How I longed to hear these words and many more followed by beautiful, mocking and cruel laughter.  Tears stream down my face at the slightest thought of any of this.  One second of reminiscing and my tears water fields which stretch on for miles.  As everything began to coalesce and culminate I started to experience the tremors in my hands and legs which only come from the blessed and inevitable gush.    

In the mysterious land I am beckoned to her and completely unable to resist.  The commands – tan dulce – are melodic in my ears.  A second time around.  How unexpected and yet how utterly joyous.  I cleared everything away, scattering the strange creatures inhabiting my mind.  Stacks twenty miles high were shoved off to the side and the focal point of the day suddenly experienced a profound shift.  Quivering with anticipation I opened the door.  My brain was convulsing inside its skull

And concluding both of these mysterious nigh-conspiratorial encounters was the same action – an action which sealed the obsession and ensured a slavish devotion.  A simple glance, barely lasting two consecutive seconds, a simple glance backward to ensure all eyes were where they were supposed to be.  How could there have been any doubt?  Surely, the pundits would never have doubted.  No, the goddess must have known.  Yet she desired to see the full strength and influence of her power, knowing others are helpless to think or fend for themselves.  Of course full concentration was in the equatorial area, a sumptuous hemisphere encased in black.  To be drawn into that orbit would surely unlock heretofore unheard of spiritual delights. 

It never hit me until recently that Darth Vader was a racecar driver.  What origin story compares in disappointment level to Darth Vader’s?  I would say Hannibal Lecter’s is equally disappointing from a pure story sense but overall does not compare since very few people actually saw or read Hannibal Rising whereas the entire world has watched Episodes 1 to 3 (since I love to suffer I regularly watch Hannibal Rising and The Phantom Menace back to back, taking breaks only to listen to my Hinder and White Stripes albums!).  If anyone can think of an origin story more disappointing than Vader’s please let me know!  Sometimes I am confused and believe my father is actually Country music legend Ronnie Milsap but up until now I have always been able to remember this is simply not the case.  Only time will tell if I always be able to pierce through the veil of fantasy to see the reality within. 

I was in a department store not too long ago purchasing a Roman Polanski film, a Kung-Fu movie and the first two Phantasm flicks when I was stopped by an apparently homeless man who also happened to be deaf.  His clothes were unclean and unkempt and he sported a big wooly lumberjack beard which I admired but did not covet.  His eyes were a piercing blue and his hair messy and receding.  He handed me a tattered three-x-five card with a written request for donations.  I took out a BIC pen (nothing writes like a BIC) from the inside left pocket of my pea coat and wrote on the card in my trademark block letters: Sorry, I do not know how to read.  I handed the card back to him with a look of stark and frustrated confusion and then promptly exited store. 

The whole encounter caused me to erupt in fits of orgasmic laughter (I always laugh immediately following an orgasm, I think most honest people would admit to the same) and I stumbled through the streets choking on my chuckles, chortles and guffaws.  Since I like to park my motor vehicle – a very expensive and yellow colored hybrid which I purchased as a declaration for my raw animalistic love of the environment – at least 5.9 miles from intended destinations I was able to enjoy a long mirth filled walk where I repeatedly fell in love with myself due to my own rapier wit.  I say repeatedly because after a few minutes I would drop deep into the self-loathing phase where I would consider randomly running into the streets with the hopes that a sturdy SUV would strike me so hard I would fly over the vehicle like a trapeze artist before slamming into the unforgiving pavement and inhaling a mouthful of gravel.  I imagined myself struggling to move with so many dislocated and shattered bones and then from the corner of my eye I see a semi-truck barreling down the road with the driver is too busy tending to the cup of McDonald’s coffee he/she spilled on his/her lap to notice me and then so many big wheels crush my head like a watermelon and the road is covered in pieces of skull, chunks of bloody flesh and squishy brain matter as though a macabre carnage filled piñata had just been whacked open at a young lad’s true-life horror themed birthday party.  However this did not happen and I eventually made it back to my car. 

In a cruel twist of fate I laughed so hard during the journey I inadvertently pulled several muscles in my stomach and chest and collapsed at the door of my vehicle, intermittently wheezing and screaming in joviality-draining pain.  I managed to dial nine hundred and eleven and humbly request an ambulance which promptly arrived some forty-five minutes later.  I blacked out for a long period of time but when I awoke I was in the hospital and a team of the finest medical professionals were sweating and slaving to save my miserable life.  I stayed at the hospital for nine months while in deep recovery and during this time I fell madly in love with my physician – a raven haired goddess with eyes as black as a cold winter’s night and hips which could scarcely fit through the door.  My passion for her was so intense that forever more I have been impotent unless my romantic partner is wearing rubber gloves.  Such is the price of wisdom. 

I want to write a book that has a group of characters on a quest for some mystical crystals which are the only things capable of saving their world.  There aren’t enough quests in books these days.  It broke the piss and shit out of my heart to see Shia LeBouf (puke) is starring alongside Mads Mikkelsen (swoon) in the soon to be released stateside Charlie Countryman.  I will watch it opening day and consume a large bucket of hot buttered popcorn while wishing Shia would never appear in another movie again and Mads would play every part in every movie for the rest of eternity.  Then I will go home and put on my pajamas (which these days consists of a cut-off Hard Rock Café T-Shirt and neon pink thong) and promptly go to bed. 

The problem with Congress is they’re all liars!

And no one heard at all, not even the chair...

I feel sorry for a shocking amount of people.  Yet it needs to be said my feelings of pity are often tinged with feelings of resentment.  The amount of willing ignorance on display is truly staggering and sometimes I slap myself in the face repeatedly just to provide some sort of distraction.  I think one day we will all metaphorically open our eyes and realize how much we missed out on during the course of our small, meaningless lives.  Oddly, one of the things which makes my mental testicles itch the most is when people tell me they are open minded when they clearly are not.  It is those people who most deserve to be cast down into the pit for all eternity.  It is truly a shame more people cannot think like me.  Lately, I have been considering a career in video game soundtracks despite having no musical talent and no real interest in playing video games.  The first album I listened to today was “Heroes” by David Bowie.  I tend to listen to this album 27 times every hour on the hour.  I wish I could swim like dolphins can swim. 

Recently I found myself in a little “Mom and Pop” store called Wal-Mart.  I ended up there after a caustic and sweaty night of binge drinking and claim jumping.  I originally considered removing the wooden framing and sharpening the glass edge of my window and then laying down on the sill and letting the window drop down and close which would effectively chop of my own head where it would then fall and bounce like a beloved and well played soccer ball on the grassy knoll below.  However I ultimately decided against this because I have not yet had a chance to purchase the blu ray release of Phantasm II and I could not possibly quash my existence without seeing the fidelity of the transfer with my own three eyes.  I do recall before ending up at The Mart I was drinking Bourbon in a little dive off the interstate with a bail bondsman who sported a navy blue blazer and slicked back hair.  We discussed baseball, the NASDAQ and the best brands of chewing tobacco.  Abruptly, he terminated our friendly banter, picked up his crocodile skin briefcase and vacated the premises without so much as a “goodbye”.  I threw back a shot of El Capitan tequila and winced as it slid hot down my throat like the seeds of so many steamy lovers.  Then I drove with the speed and ferocity of a man just escaped from an insane asylum and on his way to brutally violate and murder those who had put him there and I did not rest until I reached my destination.

While frolicking around Wal-Mart I happened to spot a woman who made me stop dead in my slacks and stare inappropriately and with nothing but pure and feverish lust in my heart, the type of lust that can only be caused by a extra sized, thick-thighed and mountainously-derriered woman squeezed into unashamedly tight clothing (in this case black pants and a white collared shirt which are always weaknesses of mine).  Her skin was tan and her hair black, starkly pulled tight and ending in a classic ponytail.  My jaw was slack and my pants constraining and I immediately wished to submit myself to her mercy.  It was only after further staring and a traverse through the filthy and stained memory canals of my mind I realized I had seen this woman before, many times before and I knew exactly.  Truth be told, she was one of the first who had initiated the dark and fetish filled cycle of sexual hell which had slowly and perversely taken over my grotesque existence. For years I had managed to escape her joyously crushing and blissfully suffocating grasp but there was no hope now.  A smoker smokes when the chips are down.   And so my obsession was born anew, free to gather its legions once more. 

I bit off all my nails then drove home with a Tom Waits mix tape blasting out of my cheap speakers which blew out years ago.  It took me 7 different tries before I successfully unlocked my door and subsequently stumbled in.  I was greeted by my invisible cat Leonard and then I poured myself a hearty bowl of Frosted Flakes (which I ate with a plastic spoon I’d procured from a Chinese place in the mall eatery) and proceeded to have a miniature Dennis Hopper marathon with The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, Blue Velvet and The American Friend.  The first of these makes me laugh; the second makes me jump and dance with joy while the last makes me weep uncontrollably.  I collapsed to my hands and knees and crawled out to my humble balcony and prayed for the strength to lift myself over the guardrail and plummet to my death below.  I love imagining my head splattering on the concrete like a fleshy watermelon with hair where upon pieces of bone and chunks of meat and brain splatter across the ground as though an overzealous child had sampled a lovingly prepared nachos and salsa platter and – upon realizing he despised their taste – decided to hurl it across the impeccably paved walkway.  Sometimes I imagine one of my eyeballs popping out due to the force of impact and rolling several yards away where it is eventually stepped upon by a hapless passerby who is the first to discover the grisly remains of my freshly rotting corpse.  The other day while having a drink with a mathematician I was delighted to find out the waitress’s name was Janeth.  I wondered if she would object to me calling her Miss Janeth but did not have the courage to ask.  In my diseased head I will forever more think of her as Miss Janeth. 

The other night I watched the feature film The Counselor directed by Hollywood mainstay Ridley Scott and starring a gaggle of hip stars including Michael Fassbender, Penelope Cruz, Cameron Diaz, Javier Bardem, Brad Pitt, Rosie Perez and John Leguizamo.  It also happens to be the first original screenplay by novelist Cormac McCarthy, author of The Road, No Country For Old Men, Blood Meridian (or The Evening Redness in the West) and a slew of other great reads.  Despite this most impressive of pedigrees (so impressive I briefly considered downing a bottle of sleeping pills so I would not have to face my inherent inadequacies one more miserable time) the movie actually turned out to be quite the mess.  But oh what a mess!  A bold audacious mess far removed from the homogenized Hollywood horseshit good ol’ Ridley has been excreting out in recent years [excluding Prometheus of course (which I – like most people – absolutely loved)].  The scenes play over and over again in my mind, spinning around like a mad carousel.  While the cold surfaces and icy aesthetics are totally in keeping with the Scott style it can be truly said the characters are 100% pure unfiltered McCarthy.  I often found myself wishing I was Brad Pitt’s character and that feeling of empowerment stayed with me long after the credits rolled where it was just me in the theatre wondering where I would head for my daily post movie theatre binge drinking session.  The movie has left an indelible impression on your truly and I plan to watch it at least 57 more times before it leaves the local multiplex. 

I never met a man I didn’t meet.  

"Wanna fight?" I asked the police officer.

Everything looks better when lying on the floor.  Dozens of empty bottles line the counter tops and window sills of my posh flat.  Many of these bottles are green while others are brown and some are simply clear (my favorite color) once all the beautiful red or pink (the colors of amor and passion) liquid has been siphoned out.  It has always been in my nature to swallow and the first swallow slides so wonderfully down my throat and into my stomach.  Oddly, I always feel the first one – the first deep one that is – more in my head, at the bridge of my nose right between my glassy fish-eyes.  It seems strange but the feeling starts as a heaviness before giving way to a wonderful lightness (it is here I always remember Portia De Rossi’s fantastic memoir).  It is reborn inside of me and cries like an infant, wanting more and more.  Its cries tug at my bloody heartstrings and the music they play is oddly beautiful atonal free-form jazz.  I cradle and comfort it and give it everything it desires.  How can I not?  When it looks at me with pleading eyes and grabs my pinky and giggles between joyous and greedy suckles.  I rarely notice the forked tongue which sometimes slips out.  

The floor always yields the greatest and most furiously explosive forms of intimacy.  Doble Sentido.  These perfect words echo down the dark and dank inner corridors of my mind, ringing in the air like a haunting refrain.  For a brief instant I remember a televised interview I watched with Lisa Marie Presley promoting the release of her debut album but I quickly push this out and away.  Doble Sentido, I repeat it.  And then glorious and shiny visions of technocumbia burst into my brain, showcasing the brightest colors of the spectral rainbow and all accented by beautiful blacks, tans and creams and glitter.  Voices harmonize in the background and I am unable to recognize the mysterious words they sing.  But their voices are honey and as the sugary sweet melodies encircle us all I know I am blissfully helpless to escape any of this.  One by one they take their turn and I take mine.  With a smile they point toward the floor and it is immediately apparent where my lips belong, where they have been dying to venture for the entirety of their existence, before that even.  I have never been more anxious or nervous in my entire life.  The leather separates and the sound is a gate opening to paradise.  And it is here the combinations of flesh, fabrics and of course – the top secret addition – that wondrous by-product of hours upon hours spent dancing in the bright lights, all come together to create the intoxicating and entrancing perfume which has never existed anywhere else in the universe.  Their eyes are all knowing and tell me how unworthy, how pathetic and degenerate I am.  Thoughts and sensations race through me in equal accordance with my surging blood and they all threaten to overtake me.  The denier.  Oh the denier, such a wondrous measurement, such texture and such scents and such sheen.  This is what first penetrated itself into every corner of my psyche and birthed the monster of desire.  The ticking of a clock pounding inside my skull.  I saw the imagery so rich in thick delights, back and forth, underneath one another and somehow being unnaturally heightened becomes the most natural thing in the world, so many vueltas, being confronted by full and tempestuous heart and sole.  As they continue to sing and mock I am lost in the world they have created: the reinforced and glorious tips, the smell of color and sharpness and the crushing of so many sacred and perfumed arches.  Somewhere, two ripe plums explode. 

I like to lie on my floor and stare at the headlights flashing across my bedroom walls.  My mouth is frequently dry and the sensation of rusty blades somehow cutting through my thoughts is quite prevalent.  Often in these moments the futility and uselessness in almost everything strikes and I feel its weight against my chest.  Why is everything (especially myself) so repulsive?  The walls start to bleed and I start to cry and I cannot figure out how this disease has spread to everyone.  As though we vomit our sickness on the face of anyone we meet.  Is there anyone truly deserving of salvation?  Fear always grabs me around the throat in these moments and sometimes I pull a blanket over my head and sometimes I grab a knife and cling it to my chest the way a child would a teddy bear.  It is here where I can most easily believe my own lies.  I tell an average of five hundred and fifty seven lies every hour.  I try to tell as many of them on the hour as possible but even for a man of my considerable skill that is not always possible.  Sometimes I like to buy seven loafs of Albertson’s brand white bread and use one for my pillow while letting a few of the unwrapped loafs rest tenderly on my pale hirsute body.  I like to then toss one gingerly up into the air and catch it, sometimes adding another loaf into the mix which creates an awesome and grainy juggling effect.  The last loaf I use to decorate my room with delicious slices of bread, sometimes nailing them to the wall – after using my handy Craftsman stud finder – so they will not blow away when the next powerful Nor’easter comes tearing through my humble burg.  “Loaf” and “loaves” are probably two of my favorite words of all time while bread is something which always has and always will occupy a place so special in my heart that the mere thought of it sends me into a catatonic state of sweaty bliss wherein I promptly defecate in my rent trousers and tear my shirt open in a manly and reverent tribute to bodybuilding great and Hollywood favorite Lou “The Glue” Ferrigno.   

I am lying on the floor right now because I am too afraid to stand up and look outside the window.  He (or was it they?) was/were correct in the assertion there are no more lines to cross or barriers to break.  Everything I know and feel is held together by the thinnest of threads.  I frequently find myself at something of a moral crossroads and though I have heretofore never faltered in taking the perceived path of the righteous I cannot deny that each and every time I find myself at this choice it is the path of the wicked which looks increasingly more attractive.  It beckons me with a siren song.  Everything holding us together can be broken down in a single instant.  I see it happening just over the horizon and it is the most horrifying sight.  The streets will turn to rivers of our blood.  Lately I’ve been seeing strange things out of the corner of mine eye.  They are fast and dark and frightening but when I turn my head to look they are already gone. 

I love the taste of makeup.

"I'm one of you!" I screamed

I am falling deeply in love with Mads Mikkelsen and I do not know where this love will take me. 

I remember dearly the sound of sleep.  It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard.  I burst into tears at the thought of never hearing it again. 

The questions came – as they invariably do – and I did my best to provide honest answers.  Still, lies always have a way of sneaking through no matter how hard I try.   Did I recognize the dangers inherent in my actions?  Of course I did.  I always do. But I never exert any self-control.  I am just like everyone else in that regard.  We all do exactly what we want.  Everything was magenta and black and a strange and wonderful color I could not identify.  I stared into it as long as possible but always had to look away as it began to hurt my eyes and damage my insides somehow.  Combinations which emphasize tactile and olfactory sensations often yield the best and stickiest results.  It is especially that latter aspect which I find most mysterious and captivating in this particular instance.  I can feel everything changing, the way the air changes right before a storm.  Is it even possible we would be willing to open ourselves up to such simultaneous dangers and pleasures?  Is there any version who actually knows the desires of the hidden heart?  There is so much blackness and subjugation and endless trails of shining leather and soft lace.  How is it that I could ever hope to rest my face against the polished steel of such honeyed and abrasive words?  I waited so very long.  She is looking down when she tells me to kiss it.    

There is no one with any strength left.  I have come to believe there may be no one hearing the thoughts inside my head.  There is singing and harmonizing and my desires are filthy and deranged.  Electricity courses through my veins and I am unable to differentiate between the human and machine sides of myself.  I gesticulate and fling my limbs about in a matter which can scarcely be labeled as “dance” or even anything approaching rhythmic.  Rather, it is much closer to a seizing or perhaps convulsions before a much anticipated conclusion or unexpected transformation.  I was driving when I realized that every single thing in the entire world grinds me down with inadequacies and perhaps no one or nothing is more culpable in this matter than yours truly.  I began to grip the wheel with one arm crossed over the other – exactly how we had been instructed not to do while back in ye old driving school (where I first learned the dangers of ingesting certain chemical compounds).  For the next seventeen minutes I had no less than four thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine separate urges to drive my car into some fatally hard surface such as a brick wall or thick meaty telephone pole.  I even considered steering it off a bridge and laughed maniacally at the thought of the uncontrolled descent and the cold water which would blanket my final moments.  What has happened to all of us?  How can there be so much wasted ambition and useless lives in such an easy place?  So many coupons and free rides and government dollars and smoke and condoms and secretions and accidental babies.  I am never not amazed at how many of us make monumentally idiotic decisions over and over again out of fear. Pathetic and repulsive are such polite words which do a disservice to the magnificence of the disease.  I woke up in the middle of the night not too long ago and saw my bedroom door open even though I always close it before going to bed.  There was a figure standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the meager moonlight spilling in through the window blinds.  I saw long and unmaintained hair which may have been grey or white and noted broad shoulders and a large build but could make out no other details.  I could not even discern if I was looking at a man or a woman. 

I am fairly certain someone attempted to murder me today while I was at work by slipping an untraceable poison into my water bottle which would have made me appear to have a simple and common heart attack.  But I clutched my jiggly belly, threw my head back and laughed heartily after dumping the water down the sink and throwing away the water bottle.  People can try and kill me but I will never die.  No matter how close I get I will always rise from the ashes once more. 

Recently I purchased the album “S & M” by Metallica.  It is a 2 disc live set where the boys in blue tear through some of their most revered classics replete with orchestral accompaniment.  Those who know me best know I have a particular brand of hatred for rock musicians who attempt to shoehorn orchestra into their songs.  All those strings are simply never necessary and only give the music a rank and sour odor of cheese left out in a humid room.  My initial reaction to this set was positive but I am beginning to wonder if this was simply a reaction to having a new (to me) and live Metallica album to feast on with my ear holes.  Subsequent listens have proven less immediately satisfying and more and more the string arrangements have become aggravating.  As is the case on 99% of albums like this they sound forced in there for absolutely no reason and clutter the music in really disgusting ways.  We shall see over the coming decades how my views on this album change. Kylie Minogue actually released a similarly styled live album a year or two ago which turned our far superior and does not fall within that 99%.  Does this mean Kylie Minogue is better than Metallica?  It’s hard to say in this day and age. 

Oh sweet Gloria.  The sound of a lusty chainsaw lops off the top of my head and my pleasure sensors are tapped and stimulated by sharp and brightly colored nails until the ground is nothing but glistening puddles at your glorious nylon covered feet.   

Give me the electric chair

I recently purchased the movies The Iceman and Blancanieves on blu ray discs at ye old conglomerate.  I stood in the aisle for what felt like minutes though it was actually hours before I dared walk up to the check-out counter.  Working there was a woman who’d rung up my items probably millions of times before yet I still had never worked up the courage to even speak a single syllable to her.  Instead, as she scans my items I prefer to stare at her and let the deep grooves of my sockets do all the talking.  Her hips are generous and her haircut is a style which I would describe and very “cool” and “with-it”.  She seems very friendly and sometimes I like to imagine the two of us escaping the confines of the store with its bright lights and neutral carpeting.  I imagine us fleeing to my motor vehicle and driving and driving until we reach the southernmost tip of South America.  My fantasies never involve us stopping at a gasoline station but I know in reality we would have to do this at some point – probably more than once – and I see myself buying several sticks of beef jerky as well as some kind of fruit juice while also magnanimously offering to buy her anything she wanted.  Sometimes I imagine us not making it to South America and instead stopping somewhere in Mexico where I make a daring attempt to manipulate and subsequently rob various cartels – meaning to get away with both the drugs and the money – but I am instead caught and viciously tortured with various parts of my body being sawed off – including my manhood – while I am kept alive through extensive use of medicinal drips before being mercilessly burned alive, my charred and blackened head hoisted onto a pike and paraded through the local papers as a warning.  I am not sure what happens to her while my life is coming to this gruesome end but I like to imagine she ends up at a farm somewhere and falls in love with the land and all the rewarding work it entails.  I think of her meeting a kind hearted farmer with rough but tender hands who treats her well and gives her the kind love she deserves, the kind of love my worthless heart would never be capable of providing. 

I have heard people say that constant sleeping can be a sign of depression.  Depression is such a pretentious, precious, artsy thing to go through.  I would never admit – even in the course of slitting the juicy blue veins on my wrists – that I am depressed.  All I can say is if I am not at work I am most likely drinking or sleeping.  While drinking I am typically crying until the alcohol content of my body rises to a sufficient level where crying is no longer something I can do.  Passing out or simply falling asleep is great because either way I no longer have to face the stark reality of my utterly failed existence. 

Everyone and everything I seek out is just a substitute.  I realized that this very morning.  I saw her amongst the choir and her voice was clearest of all.  She looked beautiful today as she always does and despite the wall of other instruments and singers it was her voice which was clearest of all.   I wanted to drop down to my knees right in front of her but shame prevented me from doing anything at all.  But I wanted to beg for love and acceptance and tenderness.  I knew I was unworthy but every part of me was screaming for this.  My mind was a maze of dark corridors filled with these monsters of desire.  Her fingers and lips created sounds which had never before been produced by earthly creatures.  I wondered if she could see directly into me.  And if so, how must it look to her?  Were her smiling eyes hiding only revulsion at the sight of the real me?  Or was it possible she could something inside worth saving, maybe even something worth loving?

I have recently been kicking around the idea of buying a drum machine.  I have absolutely no musical talent whatsoever and do not even know what accompanying programs slash equipment I would need to purchase in order to get good and proper use of said drum machine yet all the same I have desires to purchase it.  I know it would just be a placeholder to provide me with some fleeting moments of distracting artificial happiness so I could temporarily forget what a complete ugly loser I am.  The one I am leaning toward is the Alesis SR16 as I have heard from roughly nineteen hundred and twelve reliable sources that it is a good entry level machine.  My interest in this purchase was renewed the other day when I was sitting in a bar and drowning my sorrows which stem from being a fat failure when my drinking companion and I noticed the television was playing the stellar song “The Waiting” by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers.  TP is one of my favorite artists and “The Waiting” is such a good song I would even go so far as to play it in my car while driving.  My friend and I discussed the merits of the group, going from musician to musician and complimenting them on knowing how to play just enough to serve the song.  We then focused on the drumming and realized we were unable to discuss at any great length favorite drummers or analyze their talents.  I mentioned Jack Irons from his Pearl Jam days and he mentioned the drummer from the Deftones. I then told him I am often more enamored with electronic drum sounds like on some Prince albums or on the new Nine Inch Nails album.  “Nothing wrong with that,” my friend said.  As always, he was too kind and all the while I was hoping he would break his bottle of Sol on the counter and use the remaining serrated edge to slice open my throat from ear to ear and then laugh as my blood gushed out onto the bar and the floor and I drop to ground, smacking my face against the stool on the way down and then going into convulsions before dying. 

The trailer for the new Robocop movie did not excite me nor did it offend me.  I enjoy the original but it is nowhere near a favorite so the seemingly generic approach to this new version on display in the trailer was not a point of contention.  There are some good actors in this new movie which will make me watch it, including Gary Oldman.  It also warmed my heart to see Michael Keaton in this trailer.  Michael Keaton warms my heart.  

She is not on the visible spectrum

Sensations were writhing and dancing and their orgasmic cries echoed through the halls.  A mingling of colors formed two – no, three – perfect composites.  Pink and black, everything started with those two.  There were other colors previously and I remember them with great clarity, there was white, orange, green and red.  They were wonderful; each sparkled in their own way.  The palette of the three is rich and glorious and picturing this in my head causes all my muscles to flex and tense beginning at my calves and traveling to my fingers and jaw. Yet it was the pink and black this time and such a joyous mingling.  Pink with such obvious connotations but the electric pull was anything but common.  Even the shade – if that is even the right word – was something deeper than expected, outside the normal parameters.  Please forgive my endless longing.  I have heard those words before, from a voice so beautiful it had to come from the outer interstellar expanses which it described.  Those words became an exchange across our hearts and across all time and space and I uttered them myself a thousand times afterward and I thanked her for giving them to me.  She is always female during the day but at night I am not quite sure.  But the pink…how generous the color is as it slides down, not stopping until it reaches the wrists, this is not something I see anywhere else.  Please forgive me and do not look too long into my eyes, they hide things I would never want you to see.  But this color is surrounded by black and somehow the black is the best thing.  It is the color of coal or ink and it curves and curves and is supple and wonderful but it also blows in the wind and caresses softly and cascades down in waves.  I imagine myself drowning inside of it where mysterious words which I do not understand ring out in honeyed voices and otherworldly perfumes come to fill my remaining senses as a glorious finality takes hold.  Such tenderness, I plead for all your pardons and I beg you not to look inside.  One single touch destroys me – the very first and very last time – as these colors mix and coalesce and there is such softness.  My back arches and fingers interlock.  Memories and dreams crash along endless shores and we are pulled through space and into castles made of ice.  I have just begun to dream. 

I am always trapped inside my own disgusting body and sometimes I pound my fists into the walls or into my own face and I scream as loud and as hard as I can until it feels as though my throat is ripping apart.  I shower once every hour on the hour while the movie Blue Velvet plays on a continuous loop in the background.  My skin never appears anything less than repulsive and I frequently take furtive glances at the knife by bed and consider using it to obtain some relief but I have not done so yet. 

I remember not long ago sitting on the sofa and she was sitting right next to me and we were watching a movie which I had seen before but she had not.  The room was dark aside from the light provided by the television.  There were empty beer bottles on the window sill and empty wine bottles on the little table next to the sofa.  Sitting there I recalled asking someone the same question on different nights regarding how many sleeping pills they had taken.  My voice was always panicked in those instances.  But sitting on the sofa I was no longer able to fully understand my panic.  The images on the television ceased to make any sense to me.  People and objects were interchangeable, words became meaningless sounds.  The constructs of the room began to disappear and the bottles were not a recent memory but something completely abstract with no associations I could understand.  I still comprehended her at my side and I was filled with a harsh despair which was somehow so powerful it brought forth pain in my chest and head.  I took off my glasses and tears streamed down my face.  We moved together and as she held me tight I was somehow able to find the words and I simply told her “nothing has any meaning”.  I do not remember what happened after that. 

Ultraviolet by U2 is such an absolutely perfect gorgeous song from one of the bestiest albums of all time.  Playing the bassline for that song is deeply fulfilling and brings me some weird sense of peace.  Achtung Baby by U2 and Pies Descalzos by Shakira are the two albums that mostly perfectly and purely express love and all its complex parts to me. 

You are returning to me and I want to cry.  I cannot remain still for even one moment but I know you understand me like no one else does and it fills me with comfort knowing you have returned.  I will be able to lay on my bed in the dark and not feel terrified, at least for a while.  All these abstractions and harmonies, somehow they all come together.  I feel her presence throughout the day and everything is better.  What am I allowed to feel and what am I allowed to think?  Everything is always so much more comfortable when on my knees.  I could not identify the sound but I knew it would stay with me for as long as I lived.  My doubts are answered every time I hear the voices or see the faces.  It’s impossible to give myself over to such beauty and not be redeemed.  I realize I will never solve the mysteries and I am not meant to know what any of these visions mean.  They come to me and kiss my forward and cradle me in their hands.  My face is against the awakening and I drink and I bathe and I am cleansed. 

The fish market revealed so much to me

She was behind the keys and I was below everything else and staring at a mass of snakes and other creatures – many unfamiliar and most horrifying.  What was left to explain about male and female anatomy?  This question was posed to me at some point during the day by a man who may or may not have been a stranger to me.  I have no memories of speaking with him or seeing him before that day yet he was quite insistent in our shared past and I must admit to there being something familiar about the way he speaks and our rapport was quite natural.  He was in the same room as the woman behind the keys but his presence was not as constant.  He would leave to secure physical gratification with someone whose face was always guarded by the shadows.  When he left I would plug my body into various outlets and feel electrical currents raise the hairs on my skin and accelerate my heartbeat.  The woman was actually two different women and they wore two sets of clothes – one predominantly red and one predominantly black – so the rest of us could tell them apart.  Her fingers and her mouth created such rapturous beauty and in those moments I was unable tell either of them apart.  Only when finished would one promise such exquisite pain and agony with the other providing sweet words and caresses of comfort.  Logically, they should both yearn for my death but despite my attempts I was never able to discern what true feelings lay behind their smiling eyes. 

I was in bed after all of this and could not stop shaking for many hours.  I felt a door open in my brain and my room was suddenly bathed in red light.  There were still patches of black and I knew things were standing in those patches but I did not want to know what they were.  I closed my eyes and somehow the red light still penetrated through.  My hands clenched the blankets and the things approached and I could hear deep and irregular breathing. 

I cried and I cried at some other point and the tears were hot running down my face and some landed on my shirt and some spattered onto the floor where they gathered and accumulated and made something strange and frightening. 

I vacillate between The American Friend and Cosmopolis, watching each one a total of 9 times before switching to the other.  Occasionally, I will slip in The Minus Man just for something different.  Sometimes I curl up in my bed and put the pillow over my head and imagine I have been permanently snuffed out but reality eventually sets in and I weep uncontrollably and bite down on the pillow and grab the knife next to my bed and make several more etches in several different places.  Regrettably, my name has never been Victor and I strongly suspect it never will be. 

Over the course of the past few days I have purchased 7 albums by everyone’s favorite funk band AC DC.  It is amazing to me how my seething hatred for this group turned into adoring love.  I spent 57 hours today listening to their last (but hopefully not THE last) album Black Ice and learning the basslines to every song.  Even when I despised the band so much that I had their logo tattooed on my back to remind me of what a colossal failure I am in life I still always considered Cliff Williams to be perhaps the best bassist of all time.  “Skies on Fire” from this most recent release has an incredibly groovy bottom end (not unlike Colombian singing sensation Shakira Mebarak) and I played the song roughly 223 times in a row, taking a shot of El Jimador silver tequila between each time.  Eventually I was so wasted I actually believed I could amount to something in life and ended up inventing a new universal language as well as a teleportation machine which I used to transfer 9 crates of plastic Looney Tunes themed watches to poor starving kids in Africa. 

Afterward, I used this amazing technology to teleport all the way to the chilly expanses of Montana, USA where I befriended a gorgeous and generously hipped German woman with a limp – the origins of which I never inquired about – and we frolicked through the snowy fields and made out like ducklings and I told her I would love her forever and would kiss her feet every time she came home from work because that is when they would smell the finest and she said something back to me which I did not understand because I don’t speak German but it sounded incredibly beautiful because German is easily one of the sexiest languages I have ever heard in my life and this immediately made me feel like a real stale bastard because the aforementioned universal language I invented did not sound anywhere near as sexy so I immediately used my brilliant machine to travel back to my lair where I destroyed all the plans, diagrams and paperwork of this new language – burning them in a fire which burned brighter than a thousand suns – and I also destroyed my teleportation machine when I realized all the watches I’d shipped over to those poor malnourished youngsters had a serious design flaw – hence the discounted bulk rates I’d secured – and would forevermore run roughly 8.5 minutes fast and the guilt I experienced over those hungry hungry kids never having a time piece that kept accurate time was too much to take and I also knew that the world was not ready for this technology and it could easily fall into the hands of corrupt politicians and dictators but what really made me destroy this machine and all evidence of it was the realization that this gorgeous and voluptuous German woman could never really love someone as vomit-inducingly ugly as myself and I could not live with this device which had brought such love and such subsequent heartbreak into my life and so it was destroyed forever more.  I do it all for love. 

There is one thing I always wish for but it never comes true and I don’t understand how people cannot take notice.  John Frusciante (pronounced frue-ski-ant-ee) understands perfectly and outlined it all on the 10^th track from his amazing album “Curtains”.  Me heart him with all my heart.  

I cried and took the Polaroids

I wish I had a future…anywhere.

I prefer to have liquid dinners these days.  I sleep better and wake up with a better taste in my mouth and it also helps flush out my system.  No one asked my opinion but I would not mind Scott Adkins in the role.  I absolutely loved Universal Solider: Day of Reckoning.  It was a surprisingly Lynchian film with cinematography and good brutal fights.  Speaking of Lynch, I watched Lost Highway 7 times in a row this weekend, each time adding another mark in my arm and during each viewing I became more frightened.  I thought of a woman whom I met in the valley.  As a tense shift takes place I remember her hair is incredibly black, blacker than coal, blacker than the depths of the ocean.  She always lets a little fall to the side of her face.  I complimented her on a bracelet she was wearing and she explained all about its history and family ties and the greedy oil barons and persecution and necessary escape.  She is fascinating.  She tells many stories yet somehow reveals nothing about herself in the process.  Her hips are wondrous and her beauty addicting.  I suffer withdrawal symptoms when I go more than a week without seeing her, long sweaty nights of pillow chewing and dry heaving and banging my head against the walls until they are covered with red dents.  It took me 3 weeks to read a very short book by a very popular author and I found the book to be very bad.  Still, friends have given me other recommendations by this author and I will try those before writing him off.  Tis’ only fair.  I love the vocal on the song “Sweet Thing” from the Diamond Dogs album, it slays me.  So does the next song and the ones after those.  In fact, that whole album beats my pale hirsute buttocks into the ground and then pisses right on my face and into my mouth for good measure.   

It gives me comfort sometimes to imagine that somewhere out there exists a person who is so consumed with hatred for me that they spend every waking moment plotting my demise.  I like to imagine them forming layers upon layers of plans and writing them all down and conducting psychological profiles of myself and those closest to me and having several untraceable and healthy bank accounts with which to finance these plans.  I hope he or she knows me so well that my every action and move is anticipated and the grand undoing will be a systematic elimination of every aspect of my being and personality until I am begging for the end.  What a noble pursuit it would be.  Who did I create?  Who is this hero perhaps now lurking in the shadows, not quite ready to show him or herself?  I await the revelation.  Every day we all give birth to new identities and they want nothing more than our utter destruction.  But how can we blame them?  We’re all alike. 

I played Fire by Jimi Hendrix 16 times on the bass guitar today.  Then I played the cover by the Red Hot Chili Peppers 13 times.  Afterward I ripped out a page from the new issue of Esquire and ate it, washing it down with an 11.3 fluid ounce bottle of Sunny Delight.  I have always enjoyed this juice but it rarely quenches my thirst.  I visited several pawn shops recently and browsed the bass guitars as I am keen to purchase a new one.  In my heart and aortal pump I imagined my greasy fingers sliding along the luxurious neck of a Fender Jazz Bass, ideally with a sunburst or cream body.  Yet, there are several models of Ibanez basses which have also caught mine eye.  If I had billions of dollars in unmarked bills I would simply purchase one of each type of bass guitar and have a marathon cocaine fueled and sleepless try-out session where I did nothing but test basses, drink cheap gas-station bought red wine and experiment with various forms of autoerotic asphyxiation.  However I am not fortunate enough to have this much dough so I must content myself with a singular purchase for now.  I suspect I will be mulling these choices over in my brain for the better half of the next 60 years so if anyone has any advice I’m all ears. 

For the past hour or so there has been a terrifying voice saying words I do not understand coming from somewhere in my flat.  I searched for the source of this voice and can only conclude it is coming from the closet but I have been too scared to open it and see what is inside.  The voice is male and the tone goes from prodding to furious to petrified and back again.  I cried last night and reached for the full bottle of pills on my night stand and the glass of water there but chickened out at the last minute.  Somewhere small children were laughing and pointing at me for my cowardice.  There is a flat below and to the right of mine which looks quite nice during the day.  It is big and fully furnished but despite a complete lack of venetian blinds or curtains I have never seen anyone walking through it.  At night some of the lights are on, including in the bedroom.  I can see inside and there is a large mirror which faces me.  This place is deeply frightening at night and somehow I know that to enter there – particularly the bedroom – would mean facing something unspeakable. 

I see you lying on your side on a red bed in a dim lit room.   Your dress is gold and form fitting and runs all the way down to your ankles.  You are nothing at all like me and this is a wonderful thing.  Your eyes are so dark but somehow the light and warmth in your heart is reflected in them.  You smile and without words tell me it is okay to step closer.  Your smile is seductive and inviting and it promises safety and is an embrace in and of itself.  I know there has never been anyone else who has mastered that particular type of smile and there never will be.  You turn your head and let your hair fall across your chest and the gentle rise and fall created by your breathing moves this as well and the moment is electric.  Slowly, you slip off your black heels and these fall to the floor and the sound makes me jump and I am unsure why.  Your hands slide across the pillows, your hands are gentle.  There is only kindness and love and forgiveness and so many other things which only you can give and which I do not deserve.  “Ven carino,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. 

For a long time I hated the band AC DC but these days they don’t annoy me as much as before. I’m not really sure why.  

What if I threw the typewriter overboard?

At some point in the past few weeks I read the book Cosmopolis by Don Delillo.  It did not take long to read as it is a relatively short book however there were many things about it I did not understand.  I never before read a book by this author but when I saw David Cronenberg crafted the movie adaptation I knew I needed to read it.  I hitchhiked over to Barnes and Noble Booksellers and purchased the copy with the movie image on the cover.  I hate editions of books featuring the movie image but whenever I am purchasing a book I may not have otherwise known about were it not for the filmic version I always snag those editions so I may constantly be reminded of my ignorance and inadequacies.  Despite the fact that I didn’t really like the book I rented the blu ray yesterday or the day before and watched the flick on a television set I was given for Christmas.  Halfway through I regretted renting it and wished I had simply purchased it instead.  The movie was mesmerizing and I could not take my eyes off it.  It tickled all the dank and dark corridors of my brain while deepening my appreciation of the source text.  There were still long passages which flew right over my head like a flock of seagulls on a migratory trajectory yet these were somehow more palatable when accompanied by Cronenberg’s gaudy digital visuals and Howard Shore’s and Metric’s musical accompaniment.  Robert Pattinson was mesmerizing and the supporting cast equally up to task.  How I wished Juliette Binoche would have slipped off those high heels yet there was also great pleasure in my being denied this wish.  I watched the movie 14 times in a row while drinking 11 red bulls, 1 five-hour energy drink and two spicy chicken sandwiches which I’d procured at Carl’s Jr. and saved in my refrigerator for just such an occasion.  I have little doubt that once the movie is in my possession I will have a similar marathon.  Finally, the first film about our new millennium. 

The BBC version of Pride and Prejudice figured prominently in my dreams slash nightmares two nights ago though the actors looked nothing like their real-life counterparts much to my chagrin [I had a substantial crush on the lead female actress while in high school, the crush was so serious that at one point I considered slicing off my own face and mailing it to my fourth grade pen-pal whose old letters and address I still had (we would discuss Australia and Sonic the Hedgehog comic books) just to take my mind off things].  In this dream my French teacher was a beautiful French woman with long curly, dishwasher-blonde hair and butterscotch colored skin.  She had kind blue eyes and wore old, slightly tattered black tank-tops and green khaki pants with many pockets.  Her accent was adorable and she said comforting things.  I repeatedly disappointed her in many respects and this eventually drove me to frantic tears.  I ran several miles and woke up on a moving train before waking up once more in my bed where I promptly began to weep uncontrollably for this lovely woman whom I was unable to satisfy. 

In another dream that occurred the following night I encountered another French woman.  She looked completely different but was equally attractive.  Her hair was short and dark against pale skin and she wore nylons and was wild, fierce sexuality.  She reminded me of someone but I could not quite place who.  In this dream I looked like a strange combination of Matthew McConaughey and Josh Lucas and I wore a charcoal grey suit with black wing tips, a white undershirt and a red tie.  For some reason a man who looked astonishingly like Christopher Reeve though with unspeakable evil in his eyes was trying to kill me.  I know we grappled at some point and I believe he actually succeeded in stabbing with a very long and shiny knife – the type with a silver glistening handle and what you would probably find in a set adorning an island in most thoroughly modern kitchens – but somehow I was able to escape.  The French woman worked at a diner which had no walls and was located on a jungle area that surprisingly bordered a well-kept sidewalk.  I believe we were intimate at one point and I do remember developing some rather strong feelings for her.  I cannot recall her name and this hurts though I suspect I shall be seeing her again at some point. 

Jane’s Addiction truly is a great band and I have fallen in love with them recently.  I've even gone so far as to listen to them in my car while driving.  Eric Avery is one of my favorite bassists and I have tried with repeated and expected failure to learn as many of their songs as possible

.  

I never knew opera could be so sexy.  There are many things I do not know about life and about my immediate surroundings.  When she smiled I did not know how to respond so I looked away.  The moment was too lovely and I was violently yanked from my comfort zone.  Who else has consumption related dreams?  We’re all consumers after all.  Oh, the almighty dollar, we are slaves to you.  Yet I do not speak of that type of consumption, do I?  I don’t think I do.  But that is how I always know whether it is real or not, whether there is love or only cheap sticky lust.  It is only when I am devoured that I know it is someone who owns my heart and soul.  And from then on I will always long to feel myself crumble and break before and within them.  And then afterward they will comfort me and tell me it is all okay. 

Today I was singing and using the lower register of my five octave voice.  It was a good cleansing feeling and I began to feel some type of spiritual reluctance give way.  I wanted to succumb but there was still something holding me back.  Whose permission do I need to be able to think of her as her?  Please, whoever it is, please give it to me.  I am a bad man.  I could feel her and I could almost see her yet I still wondered about the nature of these feelings.  Even as she kissed my lips I could still not ascertain the color of her eyes or the thoughts that lay behind them. 

I know recently I began an elaborate question and answer session inside my head but I had to abruptly stop when I realized with no small amount of horror that I no longer recognized the voice asking the questions.