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| Last time I had written anything was a little more than half a year ago. Now, a little more than half a year later, as if projected from that moment I finished that last word at that last moment with that last thought, I sit on the morning of July 3rd and it seems right now to be as good a day as any other to make my return to this dreadful and wonderful publication. I say publication because it makes it sound grand. And I do like the grand.
It is true, often times I go for the low and the grassrooted, the indie and the derelict. I make myself out to be that way because it stands out and it attracts me. There is a sense of glory in that---to root for the underdog, to overturn the powers that be, and to witness the uprising of the lower class. It's always fascinated me, and why not? What's more grand than the fireworks display that is the human spirit? That scream of defiance and call to arms? If you ask me, the intelligence reside in the upper class; the idealism, the glamour and the details. There you will find the opera house and the orchestra, the mannerism and the intricate jewelries crafted by expert and expertly skilled specialists. All admirable, and all examples of the achievements of human culture. But the heart... nobody shows the heart as much as the lower class. There's no idealism or glamour or details. They can't afford it. It's all rough, gruff, and in the end they may not even win any battles, those ragtag motherfuckers. But there they are, regardless. Living on the bare edge of life, and that edge shaves off anything that otherwise bounds their spirit. And they march. Sometimes they charge forward and we get to witness what may be the closest we can get to a non-existent god, but mostly they just march. And there's no shame or disappointment in that. It's not easy baring your heart out in the gutters, just as it's not easy being the expert craftsman of the court.
I wouldn't know any of the above, of course. I don't live on the edge or the centre of life. It's just a little musing that grew on the spot. Just consider it the little tribute from the man in the middle.
I write neither poems or books, reports or anything worthwhile to any intellect! I write neither rancid ramblings of celebrity gossip or logs of what flavour of cake I had last night! I am the man in the middle. Average with a fire that burns like a medium sized candle; vanilla-scented because I'm not without taste but still very bland in comparison to the playful. I've some delusions with my abilities, perhaps even a lot, but nothing that's harmful to anyone outside of myself. I'm kind of flawed, like that 537th action figure coming off of the conveyor belt that's a little bit off on the paint on the eyes, in such a way that I'm still a little different from the previous 536, but largely the everloving same: assembled and packaged by average workers in typical factories to be shipped off to ordinary store shelves. Some of us get picked up and are found by our playmates based on pure luck of when and where we're displayed, others suffer from torn boxes during shipping. Or some others have pretty okay boxes but the paint is off and it's visible through the clear plastic of the box. That's a pretty telling sign that it will always be closed in, and no one will ever want to open its packaging and get to know what's inside.
Mind you, I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying.
Originally I planned to say some more, or something else entirely but that seemed to have flown away. Or maybe not completely as there are still a couple of feathers around where it used to be. That'll be proof enough to show that it was here at least. Something to hold onto, I suppose, as remnants of what's no longer there. I can still tell you now, but no. Nah. Bad idea. I decide against it. You wouldn't be impressed because it's not grand. And you do like it grand, don't you? To put it up now is just too middle man.
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| So I don't quite understand something. They say if you expect others to like you, you have to like yourself first.
But why the fuck do you have to like yourself first?
If I like myself I wouldn't NEED yo fuckin' ass, now would I? I'd be plenty satisfied by myself, and any other person would only add to the possibility that she'll spoil my already perfectly happy moment.
To put in another way, if you're perfectly happy, then how do you sacrifice? If I like myself, I wouldn't need to be watching your back, cuz I like myself. Shit, I'd watch out for myself first, no? In that case, how do you really trust anyone? When the shit hits the fan, how's it gonna be? When the shit hits the fan, a parent will leave a child, a lover will leave to save him or herself, and a friend will chop you down like a tree.
So when the shit hits the fan, how's it gonna be?
I think if I'm happy with myself, then wouldn't I just want to spend time alone being happy and not give a fuck about anyone else? Now, how is this kind of person lovable? How do I put effort into anyone who, when they're feeling extremely awesome, can go and be alone by themselves being happy as fuck? When they're happy, I'm not important, because even if I'm not there, they'll still be happy. So what worth am I? What am I really worth to anyone who's happy?
If one is happy by him or herself, then there IS no mutual love. If, hypothetically, a mate is not the final piece to a whole, but a multiplier to an already 100% happy person, then it must mean that the person is merely being greedy for not being happy with the 100%. Now how the hell is this attractive? How the hell do I know that this person, since she is proven to be greedy, doesn't want MORE and MORE?
Fuck this bullshit. And fuck all of you too. You'll all probably shoot me in the back when the sky turns red and the final bombs drop to evaporate our collective asses. Responses and arguments in the comment section please.
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| One thousand tambourines
Marked with despair
When they sound
The whole world will shatter
And they will all hear me
Ringing in the air
And they will all be deafened
By the silence everywhere
Then they too
Shall know what it is like
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| Do I actually ever have anything to say? Oh yes. Lots to say; but never an audience. I actually have lots to say within me. I have words for everybody. If I can have it my way I'll let everyone know how I feel about them. Everyone gets a piece of me. The only problem is that I have so much of the same things to say to everyone that I'll sooner get tired by the sheer amount of repetition than to speak to each and every one of you motherfuckers. But I do have certain particular things to say to certain outstanding individuals from time to time, which bears to be written down here.
Let's see, let me gather up my mind.
Right.
So there is this one person who I've known for quite a long time, perhaps even close to half of my life so far, and this person (I'll give you a hint: it's a she) is about to get married. Congratulations on your outstanding achievement! Let me count the things you have achieved through this act (another hint: this is not going to be a happy article.)
You do not know, but I still carry within my wallet, through all these years, the lucky charm that you gave me, drawn on it a stick figure in blue and a stick figure in pink. I'll have you know that I carried the cursed thing even when it never brought me any fucking luck whatsoever other than pains of the memory and pains of the knowledge that I am a sentimental foolish fuck. Screw this garbage. If I am a different man that shit would be in the dump the moment you went out of sight. But I'm not really ranting about the little piece of shit paper charm here. You know what I'm really talking about? I'm really talking about HISTORY. Specifically, our history, or the destruction of. You get married. Do you understand exactly what the fuck it does to history? It erases it. It invalidates it and makes it foul to think about.
Remember the camera? It means ABSOLUTELY JACKSHIT. It means nothing. I'll tell you what it used to mean though. It used to mean hope and it used to mean possibilities and it used to mean that at least I still belong to a little part of you and you to me. Now it's merely a piece of trashy good-for-nothing waste of space in my house and an unwelcome stain in my brain. I want it out and forgotten but not as much as I want you out and forgotten, alright? Now do you remember everything else? Remember me picking you up by the groceries? Remember our cute little dinner at a burger joint? Remember how easy we instantly feel around each other, even after years of distance? Remember when we shared an ice cream with one spoon? Remember when you pretended to take a look at my wallet and then secretly stashed me a twenty-dollar bill? Remember our riverside?
This is a sick joke, is what I will remember from now on. A sick joke from sick fuckers who got too much time on their hands. I could've lived WITHOUT going through all that shit thank you very much. But no, you had to come back. You had to let me know. You had to visit me. We had to go out. We had to enjoy being around each other. I had to give you a necklace to remember me by. You had to leave me here to go back to wherever the fuck demon-pit you spawned from. And you know what else? You can easily put the fault on me for being a naive stupid dick who only blames others for my troubles. But at the very least I am not the one who is crushing someone else's memories. I am not the one who is sucking the value and history out of the memories we have of each other. Right now I sound like an enormous stinking prick, that's because I am one. I am this unjust and I am this unfair. So what? I don't give a goddamn. So call me a bastard, it doesn't harm me in the least. If you're trying to hurt me, you should know that you already did.
Maybe you can teach me what the fuck to think every time I happen to see the old memorabilia that I have failed to throw in the trash. Hmm... what should I think about the old letters you've sent me? Gee, I DON'T FUCKING KNOW. It speaks of an old relationship that, y'know, doesn't exist anymore, because one of them burnt their end of the rope! I don't know. Please tell me what the fuck I'm supposed to do here all alone. Nothing works, everything sucks, and you're on a rocket to a honeymoon on the moon. It's not fair, it never was and I learned that years ago, but now it is just downright sadistic and there is no escape on any side. I know you don't care. You don't even read this motherfucking article. Nobody cares. Everybody's got their own fun to have. Everyone's got their own cock and cunt to masturbate with. This is a massacre. Fuck you.
Love you,
M
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| I liked the way that she will deliberately do things to annoy me such as wipe her long sleeves on the tabletop or leave her bag on the floor. "It is dirty!" I'll tell her, before I promptly lift her arm for her, or pick her bag up to put on a cleaner surface. I don't know if she liked that or not, me taking care of her, or perhaps she just got a kick out of my reaction. Or maybe, altogether, she just didn't like any of it. I imagine it's too late now to ever find out, and that's a shame. I also liked it when she would text me over the phone, whenever, and it would be about a whole multitude of things. "I just saw a beaver crossing the road," she would write in her message, "a real beaver!" Kind of a pointless message, really. One that I would never on my own send to anyone or bother to reply to. And so I replied. "Really? What, you've never seen a beaver before? I've seen'em a million times---swimming too! Did you go and pet it?" Of course she didn't. They bite, she said, "Why was it crossing the road though?" Gee, I don't know. Sometimes they just tend to do things like crossing the road. What a stupid question, I remember thinking. I didn't tell her that, of course, that's just purely mean-spirited. Plus, I imagine that she just wanted to talk to me and that just made her adorable if anything.
How it ended up the way it did, I still do not understand. And I regret it terribly. I mean, yes, on the surface there is an explanation, although it is neither convincing nor is it the whole truth. Let me tell you about it: After talking with a mutual friend of ours, I made up my mind and decided to lay down my plans on how I should go about. I had it all planned out in my head. Evening, we will go out to the park, by the water, trees, and wind, illuminated by the city lights across the river, and there everything will become real. Everything. Unfortunately, being real also brings with it certain rules of reality. These rules being exactly that it is not a dream. What really happened was that I could not reach her---for she had her own plans---and I had placed too much on this bet that had too high of a payout. Called and called to no avail, turned depressed, until finally it was answered with anger and resentment. She opened fire at me: "I don't need to talk to you everyday, you know? What is this supposed to mean anyway? I've gone through this before and I don't like it. I don't like the way you handle things. I'm very disappointed. I guess we're just looking for different things." I guess so too, because now I really have no idea what she's looking for, aside from that it isn't me. I'm not even the kind to have to call everyday. It was just that I couldn't reach her at that most critical of moments and I was anxious to follow through with my plan.
Since then she never texted me again. Frequently, almost by habit I think back to the happier times and invariably it always leads back to that final moment. Being shot; being fired at. The moment you get punctured by bullets; the moment you die. Just go away and die...
I liked how she always took my jibes and grinning insults. She would call me mean or "not nice", but she would always smile and show her dimples. I remember that I hadn't even noticed her dimples until she told me herself. Then I would ask her to smile again and I would lean close to inspect them. And she would smell nice. I liked that a lot. I also liked it when she came to visit me at work (we work at the same place but she wasn't working that day) before she had to go to school nearby. That one time she bought me an ice coffee and we shared fries. I guess I liked that she liked fries. Sometimes when we were out driving about, I also liked how she would slam my door shut real hard, as if it was a heavy door (it wasn't). I would look at her silently for a moment, and she would notice and whisper sorry. Actually, come to think of it I don't really like her slamming my door so hard. But at least she was there---and I liked that.
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