March 21, 2009

Dreamland of the Dead


“Goddess?” Did I really hear him say that? Yep. Great! Now the bloody secret is out: I’m a ridiculous old fool with a dreamy romantic sickness that comes with senility, and a "weirdo" too; it’s a bonus. HA, HA! Guess what, we already knew that. Thank you for trivializing my feelings. Tell everybody and laugh your asses off. So what? I’m disconnected from it you know, not totally but disconnecting most of the whole fucking apparatus (sans present commitments) and shipping it off to Mars. I accepted a long time ago that I’m a bloody fool; no one can talk me out of it. Why bother? It's no surprise to me and nothing to other humiliations I've had to swallow. What difference would it make? I’m getting back to normal, just chilling here. Time is shorter than a drinking straw.

You want to know the truth? I only look like an old man. I don’t care how big your tits are or how much yoga you can do, you can twist your neck into a pretzel for all I care, I don’t want to fuck you and I can still kick your ass for ordinary disrespect. When I can’t kick your butt you can patronize me. Don’t patronize me smartass. Strip yourself emotionally naked like me and we'll dance. Patronizing woman. Four years on two oceans and various seas in miscellaneous ships boats and watercraft, so maybe I know some nautical business don’t you think? The bow is the direction the boat is going, flat or round. Ask a bargeman. Don’t give me your superior-acting shit. You don’t like old men? Don’t take it out on me, I didn’t have anything to do with--whatever it was.

And you, don’t even talk to me you cowardly bitch, I’m out here selling valuable tools for peanuts to purchase gas cigarettes and coffee only, thanks to you and your lazy lying mother, that insane bitch with softball-hard tits who is trying to weave twigs into money, and whining she didn’t get what she should have earned kissing ass 20 years. When was the last time this happened to your fat rosy butt? By the way did you make your rent? I sure hope so, it was a bitch unpacking and cleaning all that shit for you, 17 boxes the size of small elephants, so you could make rent that month, you lazy sentimental insincere romance-novel-reading double-crossing avoidant mannequin. Go cuddle with an alligator. SO WHAT? I’m not worried. Someday somewhere somehow someone will pay you back for screwing me.

Ah Jesus, I’d like to get out of here this minute but don't have the dough and can’t anyway because I’m waiting to be committed to an institution; some creepy place with bare cold concrete floors cackling drooling idiots nasty guards and dirty green walls to hide the mold. And what’s the difference anyway? It doesn’t matter where I am that’s for fucking sure, it always ends the same; people are too fragile to endure my intensity. They hope that I “prosper,” and say I’m “going to be famous.” These are people who never went hungry a day in their lives or spent a minute in jail for something they didn't do. The moon will slam into the Pacific first, and a resulting tsunami will wash it all away. Like I really want to be famous, what a pain in the ass that would be. No thank you. Just a ticket to Europe will do, I swear to God I will never come back. I don’t care if I have to beg then starve on the blood-soaked streets of Paris. Jesus I’m sick of this fucking country and the dumbass bug-fuckers sucking the life out of it, with the frightened white warmongering slave-mice scrambling now to rent their surplus properties because guess what? They spent their whole lives consuming, filling boxes and then closets up with so much shit they don’t even know what they have, and now they don’t even know how to grow lettuce anymore. They wouldn’t think of it! Yards are for flowers! Wouldn’t even consider it! That’s what supermarkets are for! Support the bloodsucking Food Monopoly; jobs depend on it.

What a dull place! Don’t tell me, I’ve seen the whole damned thing 23 times. Every lookalike town with the same fast-food troughs and the whole lousy gang of coldblooded capitalist gougers from the drugstore to the First Baptist Church and the home of the local psychiatrist. The pretty rich people on top having a ball and the ugly poor people down here living in cars and behind rotting garages, under houses and in cold moldy basements, consuming every thin dime for cigarettes beer and overpriced space in a concrete benjo ditch. I’d rather go nuts somewhere else. In another country that isn’t really there.

I volunteer to suffer with the Swedes, they have pretty women who go naked on the beach without fear shame or arrogance, and nobody gets uptight about it. If someone wants to make love they simply ask and it’s yes or no but no games about it; what’s the point, try growing up will you? Goddam puritanical one-woman-one-man clubs. I got mine, get your own buddy, three’s a crowd. Yeah? Well go fuck yourself and tell her to do the same, all you jealous insecure possessive exclusionist co-dependent scared-shitless capitalist assholes, and also tell that to whoever controls the pussy supply and makes up the wedding vows.

I guess that’s enough of that. I’m disconnecting you see, getting back to normal. I’m cutting the wires this time. No more current through this son-of-a-bitch. Not this ugly old decrepit son-of-a-bitch, it might short out. It might blow a fuse melt the wires and burn the house down.

I actually thought about taking a drink but went to an AA meeting. A drink never worked, and the whole meeting was about resentment of course, what a coincidence. Now I’m thinking junkie instead. Best painkiller in the universe, and I’d be doing my bit for the war in Afghanistan, wouldn't I? Why not? Back on good old normal Planet Earth its Dreamland of the Dead anyway, so I may as well stay in my own dreamy romantic horror movie right here on Planet Mars, where there are no happy endings and no Greeks either. Just one mean going-senile old son-of-a bitch with a sore neck and a semi-permanent hard-on. And a few resentments that will surely pass as I get new ones. But normal again at last. Nearly painless in this cold airless place with a bitter electric undercurrent of anger and self-disgust, and not caring about very much. But don't worry about it; I keep my promises. I always keep my goddam promises. Ask my friend.

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