Tissue

Anxiety makes me. It makes me die. It tears up my eyes and my insides, absolute value feeling is feeling. Alive. Dry heaving and diarrhea, it is my world while it is. Instinctively I want it to stop, but why? Is this just the flip side of an ever-spinning coin? The other side, far behind and around the bend. Is it happiness? Stepping in and out like a samba, an arguably unnecessary dancing of hearts. But what else is there? Is the scar worth being cut open?

I can sit here all day and think. With ease I do nothing. With ease and it feels good, actually. To wallow. Time moves so slowly on this side. Healing will never come but always does. Maybe. Things just ain’t the same no more. And that is beautifully heartbreaking.

Unhappy Again

I believe I am unhappy again. Or rather, discontent. There is probably nuance. I am here, I made it back, 6 months in. What I wanted so deeply I got. I won. Life continues. I didn’t believe it was my reality, rather dreamlike bliss. I was full. And now again, I am hungry.

Staying hyper-focused keeps me struggling. Happiness seems too easy, because I think it is. To me there is a bigger capacity for beauty in pain. But hey, I could be wrong. I think I need to need rather than to want. Constantly adding steps to my ladder, floors to my building design, I think it can push me remarkably sometimes. Seeing potential can be disastrous. Or it can be outstanding. But it is definitely a tax.

Contained unhappiness, I believe. Yes, that could be it. Wear the mask. Know the mask. That is my mask. But I don’t have to wear it. Master your tiny brain. I need challenge. Challenge gives me purpose gives me life. Lucky to have recently found.

Perhaps it’s better to think about happiness as a percentage. 24 hours in a day. I sleep for maybe 8. I must be happy then. Perhaps 4 of my awake hours are ‘happy’. 50% of my life is happiness. How much is enough?

Search

Want. Need. Venn. I demand complexity. Rumination seeping into the outside. Partition. Thoughts are thoughts are stupid are smarts. Give them weight and drown. My brain MY BRAIN is a cloud of rain, darkly fervent, Bringer of Pain. I cannot escape my reality of banality, less to drift and sift through the unknown of danger and anger, toward the New. What I don’t yet know I can’t prepare. Strong choices make Us. Decide.

At peace. I can be at peace, at least. At last. Content///… When should you be? When can you be? Even me? But I know Me and Me can’t be. I is ever-complacent. My blues lifestyle needs the struggle, take my Material and Ground me. A limp invites a better story than a strut. Perceived plateau. To Struggle is To Search. <Maybe>

Confidence accumulated can also drain, refilled by the cloud of rain inside my BRAIN MY brain. Succeed more than Fail, Grow more than Plateau, Scream more than Know. To reach? The end. And the end. Just two more hours til two more hours til one more hour forever until no more. End with a heavy, confident brain. A gift to give. Everything is for You.

Feel

Writing feels good or eases not feeling good. 

Writing does something for me. Escape, from feeling to feeling. Hurt. You choose how long you hurt. Tell me. Please. Within my control. Like children’s hands, grasp grasp grasping up the baseball bat, wanting to play first. Sadness plays this game better.

Flow. Writing sans thinking sans grandeur. I do not wish to impress, but to relieve. Me. My stomach feels gross. Loss of hunger, empty. At least my hips look good. Happiness. Refrain. WhatIfWhatIfWhatIf. STOP. Stay. Happiness. Add meaning and pursue meaning. I am hungry for meaning. Medium rare, side of sweet potato fries. Crab chowder to start. Build the staircase. Achieve. I gotta gets mine.

Side step. Let emotions pass. Feel Them Be Them Leave Them. Okay. Now do. Come on dude, now do. Very easy to say. I feel better. I tell myself I feel better. I’ll probably feel better tomorrow, too. Draft me a line graph of my happiness. What’s this quarter like? How do my investors feel? WE NEED DIVIDENDS. Oh, I’m not, um, one of those companies. More of a, “invest ’cause you like the brand” company. More of a, “if this works I’m a genius” company. More of a, “hey I have extra money so why not” company. But I could totally change that. Be a business. Evolve or Die. Or Evolve then Die.

 

 

Motivation

I want to stop losing. I want to win. I want to succeed. For me. I don’t think I’ve wanted that before. I need to stop losing. I am holding me back. I used to want people to feel bad for me because I felt bad for me, and now I want to beat that shit out of me. I could say so much about why I am the way I am, but none of that truly matters. I want to be a new person. I don’t like my old self, but I accept my old self. And I shun my old self. Starting today, right now. I want to succeed. I need to succeed. I am done making bad decisions and waiting. Waiting for others to make me succeed. It is way too easy to do nothing, and it scares me. I am going to make something of myself. Finally. I am going to make something of myself. I will be persistent. I will learn and grow and accept. Today is a step forward. Every single day is forward. I need to be me for me. I want to stop letting people down. People love me and accept me and I take that for granted. I want to love and to accept. I will change. I have to. For me.

Pie

A gloopy apple pie on a sill, your mother’s a poor baker. Flat broke and a PhD in Cupcakes. The radio plays a tune, a soft tune, jazz, heavy on the piano, light on the sax, barely any snare. Certainly no bass. Somebody’s snapping their fingers. It’s cold outside, and the pie falls. Pushed by God, rather.

A ticking, golden watch, chained to the hip, sheathed in the pocket, warmed by the hand. Family heirloom. Crest of boar and shield, black and blue, every previous owner’s grandfather’s. Synapse follows hand to elbow to shoulder to neck to nose. Big nose smells all. A whiff, a gasp, a splat. Fatality.

A crowd encircles the apple pie hat. Round of applause. Your mother looks out her window. A poor baker once, a rich milliner now. The crowd, now doubled, chants ‘Mother’. A ding dings. Monstrous odors bellow invisibly from the sill. The Smell engulfs the mass. Silence. A retreat from the sill, several noises, a reprise. One more gloopy hat. Fashioning it fashionably, your mother jumps.

‘Chapter 9 Bankruptcy’ for 500, Alex

I think if I post this to social media, it’ll show this part of the blog, so I should write something catchy and interesting to get your attention. Perhaps a silly gif or two. Those emoji things are really catching on with the kids today. I’ll toss one of those in too, and the number 100! Siri, set reminder to change intro paragraph before posting. Thanks. I love you, Siri. No, I really do. I’m not just saying that. What do you mean, ‘What about Helen?‘ She’s my wife, what about it? I told you to never make me choose, Siri. You know what, I take it back. Pack your shit, I’m getting a Samsung. What is this, the script to Her?

 

I like the taste of water. A lot of people don’t know that about me. I’m not a vulnerable person. I could be. I could tell everyone I meet that, but it would seem too forward. Even my mom doesn’t know. But she’s probably assumed. I’ve never drank out of a toilet, but if I happened upon a newly-installed one with Fiji water in it, I truly don’t know what would happen. Marlon Brando used to drink out of toilets during the filming of The Godfather. That’s why he looked so sick.

I put water in my mouthwash. Water in my coffee. Bed. Bath. Beyond. Adam Sandler. First movie I cried to. The scoring was impeccable, you have to admit. And I am certainly no Sandler-Apologist. Waterboy.  “Rob Schneider used to be cool” would be a dope lyric.

What If: Donald Trump

What if Donald Trump is right? What if it is I who is wrong? My conscience, my morality, my beliefs, repulsed by bland, primal dialect spewed from the Speaker of the Angered, the man of so many faces.  The portrait of Manipulation, perpetuating. The Medusa seeks many men’s stares, and many men harden. Yet when I stare, I remain soft. A craving vehicle consuming frustration, exhaling vitriol and promises. A bigger fear than that of a Trump presidency is that I am wrong about distrusting him. More than fearing his followers don’t know what they’re saying, is that they know exactly what they’re saying. If truly he is going to shape a better future, and I am one of many holding him back. What am I though, without my beliefs? Do I let go, or do I tug even harder?

I would love to believe that my beliefs are my own. That I am receptive, and open, and harmless. But perhaps it is the case that I only see what I am shown. Am I only guided by what receives an applause? I don’t think so, but I don’t know so. You cannot expect a janitor to understand the concepts beneath the classrooms he maintains, but you can expect him to have opinions of its inhabitants. It is easier to believe there is solution to a problem than actually finding it. Perhaps Trump and his following are indifferent toward concrete facts, toward societal evolution, too hypnotized toward their cause for rational intervention. But perhaps I am. His entire campaign, undertoned by asking the phrase, “Why not?“, then plugging its ears to suitors. But perhaps I do that as well.

His campaign feeds off reactions, and in posting this I become part of the problem. In becoming opposition I have chosen a side, and I can’t change without changing who I am. My fear is there is an army of Me behind Trump, consciously stubborn after absorbing the details. Am I too drowned in pedantics to find true meaning? There must be more choice than ‘Yes‘ or ‘No‘, than ‘Do‘ or ‘Don’t‘, must there? I have found myself at the crossroads of ignorance, of whether I am too smart or not smart enough. For Donald Trump has made me question myself, forcibly blending my perspective of Absurdism with my perspective of Realism. And that, I fear, is my biggest fear.

 

 

 

The Ejaculation of Thought

Everything is a dollar at Dollar Tree. Trust me. Let’s name a store Buck Fiddy Tree. Same core values. Same core products. 53 cents more profit, err’time. People would spend more on dish soap if they valued washing dishes. I use dish soap on my floors because I eat off the ground. Everybody funny like that. George, let the man go ask his wife. I’ll take a slice of paper and some cartridged ink for $3.06. What is tax? Dollar Tree should be called Dollar O’Eight Tree. Only in NY. ‘Bout to be Dollar O’Nine Tree. Grand Re-Re-Opening. Lemme sit down and think.

A society where children hang stick figures. When I played Hangman, (now retired), I never knew if I was drawing myself or my opponent. Neither ever looked like a stick figure. Did the pencil prototype have a cap? Snap. The year is 1817, and I’m gnawing at the tip. Thanks for the pencil, God, if only I could sharpen it. Lest be too greedy. I’ll keep my thoughts inside my head. Nobody needs them. Innovations kill. Thank you, can opener, but I like my cans just the way they are. Schrödinger’s tomato soup. I’ll leave room at the end for the sound canned soup makes when you shake it. [____________]

This bench lets me sit on it. Unsolicited ass in your face. My version of ‘Thank You’. These armrests are too far apart for me use both, so I’d rather use none. In the middle so you always have to sit next to me. There are droplets on this paper, and I don’t believe I’m crying. Umbrellas should be made universally smaller, or bigger. To share or not to share, that is one of many questions. Socialism gives umbrellas to everyone, even those who stay inside.

Owning a minivan and living alone. Using a stall to take a piss. Surplus. At least fasten some seatbelts around mannequins. At least leave some poorly-grammared graffiti. Have a little decency. If I didn’t clog this toilet, the janitor would be out a job. I am rebuilding this economy. I am giving a shit. Alright, this paper is getting soggy. Time to leave.

Microwaved Potato

If ideas were tangible, freedom would be an anomaly.  Judge Judy for Joke Theft. Season 3: The Hidden Tapes.

I open bananas from the bottom because monkeys do. No, the other bottom. Why don’t my friends eat the insects off me?

The first skydiver was a suicide jumper who realized he could change his mind. Or the other way around.

Wearing pants twice in a row discomforts me. I’m a Mike and Ike’s machine: I REQUIRE CHANGE.

My guess is there were many other foggy nights before Rudolph. If I knew for sure, I might say otherwise.

Radiation causes exponential growth. Apply radiation to your business.

The Lord of the Rings Porn Parody Trilogy, and the line, “Share the load, Mr. Frodo”.

HORIZONTAL LINE REPRESENTS PAGE BREAK

 

Singing to yourself in public is always acceptable, especially loudly and off-kilter. Yes.

I become visually offended by women that choose not to breastfeed in public.

A man puking into the breast pocket of his own suit. Loose belt.

The word ‘janitor’ is to custodians what ‘Jew’ is to Jews. Could be mean, but afraid to ask.

Politics has taught me that humans love to be talked at in analogies. Exterminate Earth, Corporal Xyglorb.

“Don’t quote me on this, but [can’t you just imply entire interviews]?”

A scissor is two knives. Please make steak scissors.

Lists are lazy. Formulate your ideas into paragraphs, you lazy person.