date

I'm going to take myself on a date pretty soon now. I hope I "put out".

I've currently got a bloody asshole and a bruised-up soul.

It's all gone, there's nothing left, so you may as well discard the straw and take a deep breath.

Yes, I have friends: Evan Williams, Mr. Jameson, Glenlivet, Johnny Walker (mostly Red, but on a good day Black), not to mention them Christian Brothers and all that sour mash. Just remind me that 40s are mostly my enemies.

All bloated with an aching belly. Feeling rather smelly but it's hard to tell cause my damn nose is still stuffy.

Blood covers everything, my love.

Blood stains on my chest. Blood stains on the carpet. Blood stains on my dress. Shall I send it in a package, through the post, to you?

Who knows what I am to do? What am I to do?

then you die

Your life is simply a series of lines or lies you first decide you like then memorize then recite and repeat with conviction until you believe them.

Then you die.

And, even though a few people will passionately, sincerely cry at your funeral their tears will all eventually dry.

A series of sneaks. A series of strings that are seemingly unrelated but ultimately, devastatingly connected and correlated.

A random sequence of events is never a random sequence of events. There are no accidents. All accidents are planned occurrences. Every act is planned in the ever-burgeoning (almost bursting at the seams it seems) fully conscious subconscious. No such thing as irrelevance. No such thing as crime.

Your life's a nursery rhyme.

The sheep we've been counting are tired of waiting for our bodies to fall asleep- they are counting on us to fall asleep.

Me on my knees.

Leaky faucets. Squeaky corsets. Inflatable feelings. Me on my knees.

Lost keys, eventually redeemed- after the locks to the chains have already been changed. We forfeit seconds before the other team were going to quit.

Nobody ever wins. Nonetheless, people lose every second.

Don't worry, it's a lie: you are always on time, you couldn't be late or tardy if you tried. Then you die.

I am a validated invalid.

How could any person refuse to believe in contradictions? Contradictions are the only things that truly exist. There is no such thing as existence.

you take to knees

She's making a sport out of eating underneath winter's chilly freeze as you're marveling at the obscenity of your body. You take to knees, clasping your hands tightly (not quite, but more or less, genuflecting). You recite a dirge (for either a funeral fire or a birth blaze) in a sing-song voice. Next, you pleasurably burry your face in your hands and then proceed to burry your capability (the possibility) to make a choice. Her eyes are moist. Your underwear are drenched. Your thighs are clenched (as well as your teeth/fists) and sweaty. A Brown Betty teapot is blowing off steam in a myopic, yet far away, dream. Not everything is what it seems but everything seems to be what it is, regardless.

when i receive the receipt

It wasn't always but now it is. The person you are living for doesn't even know that you exist. Exits and entrances. Departures and arrivals. Frowns and smiles. Miles and miles. Adults are children- you smile like a child. This is a compliment. Yet it is not complimentary- it will be added to your tab- nothing in this life we live is free. Except maybe me- forgiveness is far from cheap; but regardless I am on my knees swallowing pennies made of dirty coppers. Isn't that a synonym for police? Please. I will thank you when I receive the receipt. This is a recipe. The ingredients are invisible (and nourishing). The refreshments we drink are far from refreshing. My memory needs to be refreshed- I can't remember if this is your birth or your death.

it's still the same old story

Indeed, it's still the same old story- we forfeit the fight for love and glory.

It's never enough until it's too much.

How young I am depends on how old you are.

Every single star has a first and last name; a birthday and a death date.

the goal of life

The goal of life: to live more than die while alive.

The goal of life: to live at least a little bit when still alive.

The goal of life: to ascertain your skills and talents and use them for good instead of evil. (note: this requires one to first define good and evil though- so I guess that may after all be the ultimate goal, i.e., the defining of good and evil is the aim of life).

The goal of life: to find heaven on earth then die.

The goal of life: to experience as many people, places, and things as possible before permanent cessation.

The goal of life: to not care what the goal of life is- to just live it (life, that is).

The goal of life: to reach a point in which you are so satisfied that you stop asking yourself this question: what is the significance of my existence.

The goal of life: to realize the answer is there is no answer. And, to be okay with this.

The goal of life: to happily accept death.

The goal of life: to fight the good fight; or to reach a peace treaty between your heart and your intellect and not fight at all- a mutually agreed upon forfeit.

The goal of life: to compose a list such a this.

epitaph

Some nights I write myself alone, disconnect the telephone, and lie prone in the middle of the bathroom's cold tiles. I smile while imagining all the nice things people will say about me on my funeral day. I get happy thinking of the eulogy my mother will recite whilst crying; it gives me a deep sense of satisfaction and warm surges of calming electricity shock my body when I contemplate what they'll say in the inscription written on the epitaph above my grave. In the fetal position I dream myself to sleep- peacefully- while thinking these things. Then I awake and masturbate.

saggy

Let's get real. Please. Shall we? There is, assuredly, no such entity as security. Especially not of the social degree. Nine digits do not mean anything. Except, perhaps, that you are a piece of property- not a woman, a man, or an in-between; certainly no such thing as a human being!

Ach, believe? How does one believe in reprieve in such an existence, my friend, what exactly can we believe in when the majority of the populous spend their lives as objects for rent- ceasing to live for 40 hours a week in order to receive a paycheck at the expense of absent dignity. In the midst of creaky externally imposed ideologies.

And, moreover, the elderly are left to eat cat food, to freeze in sober somber solitude without any heat in their tiny rooms while these so called "criminals" are residing (if one could be so naive as to dub it "residing") in penitentiaries. Surely, if the elderly could be of necessity then we would lock them up in something of a prison for "free." Yet all the old fogeys seem capable of doing is farting, sleeping, and complaining about everything- there is no need for any more of such futility in this "society." There is no industry in the elderly. So, alas, let them die cold hungry and alone (not owning any property, not even knowing how to dial a telephone or raise the volume on a TV).

But wait, but wait, but at once- wait!

Everything said before is only for the poor eyesores. In the unlikely, and most lucky, event that the geriatrics are rich then we will kiss their feet! We will insert their false teeth with our ungloved hands, we will feign love and bow to their demands, we will put them in buildings with nurses dressed in brightly coloured ornamental yet practical garbs, we will feed them meals of gluttony that they will hardly eat (while little skinny babies go hungry at the bottom end of the pyramid), we will place medicines on their tongues and sing as they choke the pills back past those dry lips, through the choked passage of throat, and down that gullet of a saggy-skinned neck!

Yes. For there is definitely money in this.

such misery

A hopefully hopeless hypochondriac. It smells like blood in my nose; so much so that I pick at the tender flesh inside of it trying to pick out pieces of death.

The thought occurred, while outside smoking a cigarette- laughing at the idea of revenge- that weatherwoman and men are quite ridiculous.

Either dead or dying but never really alive or living.

There is most likely no such thing as crime- certainly not in any official sense. It is what you make it. Such is this existence.

Furthermore, in the seemingly unlikely event that somebody viciously murders me in the first, the third, or the eightieth degree, I beg thee to forgive them.

Humanity.

Dismiss of all charges, in fact- if anything, give them all my yearbooks, belongings, and other nauseating nostalgic trinkets. Also, give the lucky person my birthday. Throw them a party every year for me. Make them a gift of my memory.

O, to love everything! Such misery.