The door bell rings and he thinks,"Oh, shit. I have no interest in getting that door. I should give the pizza guy my house key, so he can walk in and plop that freshly baked pizza on my lap and I wouldn't have to get up to do the exchange." He lurches his neck toward the front room. "It's open!"
The door handle rattles, but doesn't budge. There is a muffled response coming from behind the door.
He finally looks at the paraphernalia surrounding him on the comforter. "I'm coming!" He starts plotting his reluctant escape from his comfortable solace. "God, I hate moving all this shit. I hate getting out of bed." He screams"Hold on" to the front room to buy him some more time, then thinks, "I'll put the bong right here next to my pillow on the floor, so I know it's close when I need it. And the weed next to that, and the water glass next to that. I need a piss pan. I hate getting up to go to the bathroom. What do you call those things? Oh, fuck it. I don't want to think about that for too long. Here I go. Up and moving forward. Oh, my knees are week. Am I getting fatter? Who cares? Do I know anyone who would care? I don't. When's the last time I got up? I had to have taken a shit yesterday... I don't remember."
The door opens. "yeah."
"Large pepperoni pizza."
(sigh) "yeah, what is it? 17 something?"
"18.28 sir."
"...28? What the hell is that?" Cash is yanked from his pocket. Coins scatter all over the floor. The pizza man looks down. He's still holding the pizza.
"Don't worry about it. I'll vacuum it up later." (sigh) "Is 20 good? Of course it is. here."
The 20 dollar bill is shoved into the pizza man's breast pocket and the pizza is ripped from his fingers. the door slams.
"I just want to fucking lay down. I hate moseying across this carpet. This carpet is thick. It's tiresome to walk through. I should get thinner carpet. Should I get it changed? No, people would have to come to do it. I'm not going to change this shit myself. They'd probably need me to move the bed, though. Or, tell me to get off it so they could move it. Maybe I could get them to do all the carpeting around the bed and not worry about changing the carpet under the bed. I could just sit here and smoke and watch them work.
"The thought of all this is tiring me out. I'm just gonna lay down... put the pizza box over here and - ahhhh. let's see." he opens the pizza box. "Ranch! Damn. It's in the fridge. Damn. No ranch then... Napkins? Fuck it. I'll just wipe my greasy fingers on the other side of this mattress. If I have the energy.
"Damn that walk to the door tired me out. I'll just rest here a bit. My feet are cold. Fuck'em, I won't die if I leave them out for a little nap. I don't think I can handle tossing a blanket over them right now. My arms feel nice and sung under my chest. I've never felt so comfortable. If only my feet could be warm. I should get a maid. She'd cover my feet. Shit she'd probably rub'em for me and put some moisturizing lotion on them as well. I wonder if I could seriously find a cheap one.
"The pizza will go cold. Well, it doesn't matter. Cold pizza is never bad. it'll be fine. I'm just going to close my eyes here, and yeah.... that feels so nice. ahhh. Fuck moving forever. I just want to lay here and breathe. If i didn't have to get hungry or take shits all would be perfect. This is what I live for. This is perfect."
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
This little human...
Look at this human. Look at how sad it looks. What does this little human really have to be sad about? Why is it so confused? Why can't it just lighten up like those around him? Why does it pout so when it's alone? What is the point of it doing absolutely nothing other than staring at a wall it'll eventually hit? Oh, how funny, it did hit that wall. See I predicted it. What a predictable little human. And look, it can't stop thinking about someone watching it. How funny. It's trying to prove to me that it's doing something to make me believe it's not paranoid that someone is watching, but can never rid itself of the constant watch it feels it's under. Oh, now it's trying to convince itself that it's not ashamed of doing things for itself, like masturbating, or looking at itself in the mirror, or choosing to read some political book that it'll never truly understand and only seems to be trying to retain morsels of information to repeat them as some banality in casual conversation. What is really interesting to this human? It's not apparent. I don't notice a pattern in hobbies. Or even a consistent schedule. It must be that it's interested in the fact or belief that someone is always watching it. Because look, it can't stop thinking about it. How sad. Look at all those other humans around it, just casually living their lives with out the constant fear that some non-existent higher being is judging their every move. Why is this little human plagued by that? Well, that's its own problem. I'll just sit back and watch and observe it self destruct into either tears or a desperate need of sleep with the hope of never waking up. How odd this human is...
Controlled Anarchy: reworked
I don't practice anarchy. I simply think about it all the time. I actually base the majority of my decisions on whether I want to do something or not, then act according to the exact opposite of my desires. Like this woman for instance. She wants me to come to her home and stick my dick in her. I don't say this as a boast or in confidence or anything with intentions what-so-ever, I state it because she actually told me those words. It was in jest of course - at least the vulgarity and directness was funny, to her - but the imploring was true as time. She rubbed the denim surrounding my crotch to further her sincerity. I know the true desire I have is to take this woman to her home and ravish her; explore, caress and fuck her. That's what women like her want. That is what she is proposing. And that is also what I want. But I'm not going to. I'm not going to because it is what I want. And more times than not I find that acting on what I want leads to a painful experience. A condom might break, or better yet, she may have no condom, and neither do I - which won't prevent us from the act, and all I am to wonder is, "Who is this woman? She may leave me with a rash that requires constant application of cream. What number am I on her tally chart of men she's picked up from a bar and rubbed the crotch of?"
But, I really don't care about these questions to be honest. I really want this to happen. I actually want this slut. But I need these questions. I need a quantity of arguments to deter me from my lust. Deter me from the unexpected. I have come to believe that I do not need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. To base a decision on. Contented? Complacent maybe, but suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy: acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. Like, recently, I've made acquaintances, friends maybe. I've simply acted as if it were their birthdays. Given compliments. Inquired about certain ventures of theirs, but never getting too personal to look overtly interested. Just enough to keep a plateau of verbal exchange present. Instead of lashing out at these stupid peoples' ideas, goals and dreams, I, instead, simply live in their dreams. Give in to their reasoning and invite conversation about it. I warm to those I hate. And they, in turn, gravitate toward me.
Things are normal, finally. Finally having a group of people desiring my attention. Even if it was of recent, before I founded this philosophy, that I would have despised these people I surround myself with now. I would have sought to spite them at every opportunity I got. Would've readily punched any of these "friends" in their smug, wine-tasting demeanors if they were to merely show their faces at any of the many bars I used to frequent. Granted, I would've been on an alcohol bender and on a war path for pussy, as I've hinted is inherent in my nature, inherent in all our nature (natures? - is a part of being human) which would have led me to illustrate my alpha-male dominance by devising some justification to take a stand for some cause they would've been unaware they were offending somehow, and on my plot to destroy them, first find the feistier one of the crew and take him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining ones fighting out of their own pride or their loyalty to their fallen leader, and I would be laughing and guffawing at each impact... That to me was indulgence. That to me was freedom. That was my life: I own everything.
So, I reversed my methods. And now I own nothing. I do nothing out of self-interest other than to avoid who I was. I now have these friends. These people. These "clingers" to conventionality. These friends don't encourage me to drink. They don't want me drunk. I've kept a great rapport with this group; ingratiating myself congenially; I no longer make enemies. No one wants me dead. No one here really even wants me at all. I'm just there. A reflection of the perfect manners everyone around me yearns to attain. I exude what they strive for with exactitude. And my behavior is what they gravitate towards; not me. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. And I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same girl as the week before. They really don't care. And it doesn't matter to them, or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care. That would consequently spawn expectations to "catch up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. And we laugh as we mispronounce it repeatedly. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it's appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it's appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured...
I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from from my neighbors cabinet. It reads "Amozphine" (an anti-depressant) but I tell them it's "Diclofenac," a pain reliever. And I fake that the medication relieves pain instantly. Only, I tell them it's prescribed so I don't offer it to anyone, nor do I concede to give hand-outs when others feign a headache. If they were to know what is really in this bottle, my facade would be ruined. My image of a purely sociable being would crumble. It's a bottle of lies: a bottle I filled with smarties. I swallow candy as my psychosomatic cure to these uncontrollable spasms that cripple me.
I feel, that since I've made it this far. Since I've altered my reality thus, that soon enough I will be able to change my perspective of these people, these interactions, this lifestyle. I aspire to become engrossed in these activities. I aspire to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. This life will become habitual. And in the near future I portend that these desires will diminish due to my self conditioned instinct to act opposite of them; dismissing them habitually will cause them to vanish. Then, these will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. And I may even marry one of these women on my arm. The marriage will be a part of my system. And I will live it out until I die.
I've already felt recently that I've gained some ground. I've indicated a decline in the fear I have that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaneous indulgences. I'm slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior, unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders, addiction and confusion. Stints of loathing and blaming all of the world because it has no order, no foundation; it's chaotic. It takes me weeks of recovering from these fits before I can face the senseless world again. And during this recovery I reflect on my experience and find that with in these anarchistic delves into recklessness, with in these masochistic cycles I go through that brings me back to a point of reflection, there is a pattern, and it's only ironic that when I think that life abhors order and systems - I create one. I'm a contradiction. And I reached a point where I could ignore no longer. So, I've submitted. Instead of being ignorant, I've decided to become deliberate. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, controlling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe. The horrible cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a Diclofenac down my throat almost by second nature now, but I wish the smartie would actually do something for me. Relieve these tense muscles and soften the beating pulses in my head. These pills do nothing but save face in the presence of these friends. I just wait it out. Let them think the medication is settling in. I wait until my eyes stop swelling to the frequency of my throbbing brain, and I embarrassingly wipe them when they tear up. I wait until every hair stops tingling and and my face cools down from the warm rushing blood. I want to get rid of the pain so badly. I want to give this pain to world which created it. This world, these people are what I have and all I have. But in these moments I cannot bear it. I think of painful harm I could do to others in these moments. I think of how much I want to crush people with set moralities. How do they do it and not cringe like me!? Why is this what they want? Why do I have to want what they want just to be acknowledged? I hate this purity. This order. This way of life. I think of having sex with icons of this purity; only to defile them. I think of where we'll all be near the end of a life like ours. We'll be dressed up and old. Still wearing these costumes and smiles. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. Just to show her that even after so many years of paying homage to a way of life that is supposed to protect you, the unexpected can still occure. And I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migraines. This woman works at a cafe, goes to bed at 9pm every night only to wake and take a yoga class at 6am the next morning. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as this entity that embodies the guidance for all our predestined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and her neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because of some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle of tablets that act as her courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world one day at a time. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to smash my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not the woman on my shoulder at weekend parties. And I don't understand that. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly? Every time I see her I want to coerce her to admit she's such a shameless contradiction. But, then again, why, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. These complicated mixed emotions are why I eat another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
But, I really don't care about these questions to be honest. I really want this to happen. I actually want this slut. But I need these questions. I need a quantity of arguments to deter me from my lust. Deter me from the unexpected. I have come to believe that I do not need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. To base a decision on. Contented? Complacent maybe, but suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy: acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. Like, recently, I've made acquaintances, friends maybe. I've simply acted as if it were their birthdays. Given compliments. Inquired about certain ventures of theirs, but never getting too personal to look overtly interested. Just enough to keep a plateau of verbal exchange present. Instead of lashing out at these stupid peoples' ideas, goals and dreams, I, instead, simply live in their dreams. Give in to their reasoning and invite conversation about it. I warm to those I hate. And they, in turn, gravitate toward me.
Things are normal, finally. Finally having a group of people desiring my attention. Even if it was of recent, before I founded this philosophy, that I would have despised these people I surround myself with now. I would have sought to spite them at every opportunity I got. Would've readily punched any of these "friends" in their smug, wine-tasting demeanors if they were to merely show their faces at any of the many bars I used to frequent. Granted, I would've been on an alcohol bender and on a war path for pussy, as I've hinted is inherent in my nature, inherent in all our nature (natures? - is a part of being human) which would have led me to illustrate my alpha-male dominance by devising some justification to take a stand for some cause they would've been unaware they were offending somehow, and on my plot to destroy them, first find the feistier one of the crew and take him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining ones fighting out of their own pride or their loyalty to their fallen leader, and I would be laughing and guffawing at each impact... That to me was indulgence. That to me was freedom. That was my life: I own everything.
So, I reversed my methods. And now I own nothing. I do nothing out of self-interest other than to avoid who I was. I now have these friends. These people. These "clingers" to conventionality. These friends don't encourage me to drink. They don't want me drunk. I've kept a great rapport with this group; ingratiating myself congenially; I no longer make enemies. No one wants me dead. No one here really even wants me at all. I'm just there. A reflection of the perfect manners everyone around me yearns to attain. I exude what they strive for with exactitude. And my behavior is what they gravitate towards; not me. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. And I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same girl as the week before. They really don't care. And it doesn't matter to them, or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care. That would consequently spawn expectations to "catch up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. And we laugh as we mispronounce it repeatedly. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it's appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it's appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured...
I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from from my neighbors cabinet. It reads "Amozphine" (an anti-depressant) but I tell them it's "Diclofenac," a pain reliever. And I fake that the medication relieves pain instantly. Only, I tell them it's prescribed so I don't offer it to anyone, nor do I concede to give hand-outs when others feign a headache. If they were to know what is really in this bottle, my facade would be ruined. My image of a purely sociable being would crumble. It's a bottle of lies: a bottle I filled with smarties. I swallow candy as my psychosomatic cure to these uncontrollable spasms that cripple me.
I feel, that since I've made it this far. Since I've altered my reality thus, that soon enough I will be able to change my perspective of these people, these interactions, this lifestyle. I aspire to become engrossed in these activities. I aspire to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. This life will become habitual. And in the near future I portend that these desires will diminish due to my self conditioned instinct to act opposite of them; dismissing them habitually will cause them to vanish. Then, these will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. And I may even marry one of these women on my arm. The marriage will be a part of my system. And I will live it out until I die.
I've already felt recently that I've gained some ground. I've indicated a decline in the fear I have that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaneous indulgences. I'm slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior, unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders, addiction and confusion. Stints of loathing and blaming all of the world because it has no order, no foundation; it's chaotic. It takes me weeks of recovering from these fits before I can face the senseless world again. And during this recovery I reflect on my experience and find that with in these anarchistic delves into recklessness, with in these masochistic cycles I go through that brings me back to a point of reflection, there is a pattern, and it's only ironic that when I think that life abhors order and systems - I create one. I'm a contradiction. And I reached a point where I could ignore no longer. So, I've submitted. Instead of being ignorant, I've decided to become deliberate. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, controlling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe. The horrible cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a Diclofenac down my throat almost by second nature now, but I wish the smartie would actually do something for me. Relieve these tense muscles and soften the beating pulses in my head. These pills do nothing but save face in the presence of these friends. I just wait it out. Let them think the medication is settling in. I wait until my eyes stop swelling to the frequency of my throbbing brain, and I embarrassingly wipe them when they tear up. I wait until every hair stops tingling and and my face cools down from the warm rushing blood. I want to get rid of the pain so badly. I want to give this pain to world which created it. This world, these people are what I have and all I have. But in these moments I cannot bear it. I think of painful harm I could do to others in these moments. I think of how much I want to crush people with set moralities. How do they do it and not cringe like me!? Why is this what they want? Why do I have to want what they want just to be acknowledged? I hate this purity. This order. This way of life. I think of having sex with icons of this purity; only to defile them. I think of where we'll all be near the end of a life like ours. We'll be dressed up and old. Still wearing these costumes and smiles. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. Just to show her that even after so many years of paying homage to a way of life that is supposed to protect you, the unexpected can still occure. And I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migraines. This woman works at a cafe, goes to bed at 9pm every night only to wake and take a yoga class at 6am the next morning. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as this entity that embodies the guidance for all our predestined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and her neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because of some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle of tablets that act as her courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world one day at a time. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to smash my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not the woman on my shoulder at weekend parties. And I don't understand that. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly? Every time I see her I want to coerce her to admit she's such a shameless contradiction. But, then again, why, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. These complicated mixed emotions are why I eat another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Change of pace: noir-ish...
He watches her. "All too often?" he thinks often. It's Autumn. But that doesn't really matter here. Everything remains green. She rakes the front of her father's bank in a mini-skirt. All pine needles. It takes her an hour to rake the needles which could be a ten minute job with a broom. She likes being out there, he knows it. He watches this every Tuesday. And he hates himself every day that he does. Expecting her to be out there to perv on. "How absolutely horribly sad," he repeats to himself; holding his whiskey. He looks down at his drink and promises himself that he will go back to Coors Light.
Slats of light shoot through his venetian blinds. The cigar smoke wafting from his ash tray further accentuates the harsh lines of sunlight. He finishes what's left in his glass, stands and turns on the light. He looks around the room for a reason to finish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle. There is a jug of grape juice in his cooler. He makes a few mix drinks and recycles both of the containers when they are finished. Waiting for the alcohol buzz to come on and not giving a fuck about what hours he needs to put in today, he exits his office. He smiles at Gladis at the reception desk on his way out and observes the flab on the underside of her exposed arm flap as she waves at him.
He experiences a sudden urge to run, contains it, and walks briskly over to pay phone. He looks at it and wonders... He wonders why he didn't have the impulse to make this phone call while still in his office. Why was it, that coming outside created the desire to call someone he has vowed never to call? What was it about leaving his office that gave him the craving for destroying his commitment to stay clean? And how the fuck does remaining in that sleep inducing computer chair keep him sober? He stopped thinking, and impulsively spoke out loud,"Fuck that chair."
He puts some coins in the pay phone, presses a few buttons and the phone is ringing. A rough voice picks up, "Yeah?"
The man begins sweating, "Yeah, uh... It's been a long time. Can I come by?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Harold."
"Harold? Who the fuck?!" The receiver buzzes with a dead tone.
"Damn it." Harold hangs up. He walks away. He wipes a forehead full of perspiration with his arm. It sticks and mattes down his arm hair. He also gets a nose full of his hideous body oder from exposing his arm pit to the air. He spits. Adjusts his crotch and leaves. Leaves the phone booth. Leaves his receptionist. Leaves his desk, his plant, his coffee pot, his cigars, his books and his shitty debt collecting job. He goes to the bank where the girl is raking wet pine needles and showing off her legs.
"Hi." the girl stands and straitens up to show off her enormous chest in a button down blouse. The top three buttons are left unbuttoned. He knows this because he takes time to shamelessly count. She smiles at him, then at the concrete, then back to him. "Good," he thinks, "I can still make'em nervous."
"Have a good day." She says to him as he walks inside the bank.
"Yup."
He opens the glass doors and is flooded by highly priced air conditioned air. He breathes it in. There is a nervous young man wearing glasses and a permanent smile sitting behind the teller counter. Harold shakes his head at the familiar nod he is accosted with from this little boy in glasses. He stops walking and thinks of going back out to flirt with the young girl outside. Possibly just kidnap her and drive off to Mexico. Keep her there until she learns to love him. Then when she is given the chance to go back to raking pine needles from the ground of her father's bank in this shitty town, she'll beg for forgiveness that she ever teased the idea of leaving him.
Harold walks to the teller and smacks the counter top with the palm of his hand, "I wanna take it all out, Jimmy."
"Got your ID on you today, sir?"
"Fuck you, Jimmy. Give me my money." He tosses his ID on the counter. The boy nervously reads the name.
"Sorry, mister Travee-err."
"It's Travier. No 'r.' Jimmy, god damn it."
"Sorry, sir."
"It doesn't fucking matter."
"How much would you like to take out Mr. Trrav..."
"EE- AA."
"Mr. Trav'ee-aa'." Jimmy puts his shaking hand in his pocket to hide his embarrassment.
"All of it, boy."
Harold looks around as Jimmy tries to make up for being inept; fumbling with his keyboard and mouse. Harold thinks of buying a gun. "Why not?" he considers to himself. "20,000 in my pocket, I'll die before it runs out. Might as well protect my self on the way to the end."
"Wow, that's a lot, sir."
"Jimmy, the amount doesn't concern you. Just give it all to me."
"How would you like it, sir?"
"What'd'ya got? A bag or something?"
Jimmy responds by nodding and then turns around to grab a tote bag from behind him. Harold smiles and nods to Jimmy. It takes a minute for Jimmy to talk to his supervisor. Then it takes another minute for Jimmy to fill the bag with the man's money.
Harold walks out of the bank with a sack of money and a refreshing smile on his face.
"Good-bye, sir." Jimmy meekly says to him.
"Yeah." Harold swings open the front door and back into the sweat conducing thick heat. He sees the buxom bankers daughter continue her exhibitionistic raking routine.
"Tha's a big bag you got there."
Harold stops to count the buttons on her blouse again. "OK."
"Where you going with all that money?"
"Mexico, or Equador, or Cuba maybe."
"Is that so?"
"Don't know. Might change my mind."
"When'll you be back?"
"Don't imagine I'll be back."
"What about your business and all that mister? How will you run your business?"
"Shit. Well, I guess it'll run itself out."
"What about Gladis?"
Harold looks across the street to see Gladis, like a drone, plucking at the keys of her computer.
"She's a big girl, she'll do fine. She's a big girl."
The buxom daughter looks to the needles on the ground and her tone shifts. She's not even posing anymore. Now, instead of being this untouchable icon, she suddenly becomes cute, interesting, vulnerable, and very very touchable.
"Well, I might as well say it. I've been waiting for you to take me out one of these Friday nights."
He looks at her blouse again, and this time nearly laughs, "yeah?"
"Yeah." She rocks on her heels. "And seeing how this is the first time we've talked since you got that place over there... It'll be sad if it's our last."
"Hmm..." he sighs and watches her continually grow younger as her honesty makes her more human, "Well, you're plenty pretty. You'll do fine with out me." He turns and walks.
She calls after him, "Mister." He turns around to see her half exposed breasts bounce their way towards him. She rushes up to him nice and close and then grows increasingly nervous by the moment. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips purse. She rubs his right hand with her left. He grimaces. She looks to him. They share exact opposite gazes. Hers, loving and romantic. His, confused and annoyed.
She takes the opportunity with this proximity to plant a kiss on his cheek, then backs off immediately and exudes an expression as if she's just been slapped. Harold shakes his head, "What the fuck?"
"I love you mister."
"You're confused little girl. You need to get the fuck away from that bank."
He turns, and despite the blubbering jaw of the softly crying girl, leaves at the bank.
He walks to the rear of his office building where his car awaits. He takes the time to put the top down to his convertible Mazda Miata, hops in the front seat with out opening the door and starts her up. He lights a cigarette and takes off around to the front of the building. He stops. He sees the chubby receptionist typing away at some legal paper. He reaches into his bag of money and removes one of the thousand dollar wads of cash. He throws it at the window and scares the piss out of the receptionist when it hits the glass. Startled she brings her hand to her chest. Then, assuming it's a joke she waves at Harold.
"Fuck you, Gladis!" He speeds off in his Miata with his middle finger in the air.
Slats of light shoot through his venetian blinds. The cigar smoke wafting from his ash tray further accentuates the harsh lines of sunlight. He finishes what's left in his glass, stands and turns on the light. He looks around the room for a reason to finish off the remainder of the whiskey bottle. There is a jug of grape juice in his cooler. He makes a few mix drinks and recycles both of the containers when they are finished. Waiting for the alcohol buzz to come on and not giving a fuck about what hours he needs to put in today, he exits his office. He smiles at Gladis at the reception desk on his way out and observes the flab on the underside of her exposed arm flap as she waves at him.
He experiences a sudden urge to run, contains it, and walks briskly over to pay phone. He looks at it and wonders... He wonders why he didn't have the impulse to make this phone call while still in his office. Why was it, that coming outside created the desire to call someone he has vowed never to call? What was it about leaving his office that gave him the craving for destroying his commitment to stay clean? And how the fuck does remaining in that sleep inducing computer chair keep him sober? He stopped thinking, and impulsively spoke out loud,"Fuck that chair."
He puts some coins in the pay phone, presses a few buttons and the phone is ringing. A rough voice picks up, "Yeah?"
The man begins sweating, "Yeah, uh... It's been a long time. Can I come by?"
"Who the fuck is this?"
"Harold."
"Harold? Who the fuck?!" The receiver buzzes with a dead tone.
"Damn it." Harold hangs up. He walks away. He wipes a forehead full of perspiration with his arm. It sticks and mattes down his arm hair. He also gets a nose full of his hideous body oder from exposing his arm pit to the air. He spits. Adjusts his crotch and leaves. Leaves the phone booth. Leaves his receptionist. Leaves his desk, his plant, his coffee pot, his cigars, his books and his shitty debt collecting job. He goes to the bank where the girl is raking wet pine needles and showing off her legs.
"Hi." the girl stands and straitens up to show off her enormous chest in a button down blouse. The top three buttons are left unbuttoned. He knows this because he takes time to shamelessly count. She smiles at him, then at the concrete, then back to him. "Good," he thinks, "I can still make'em nervous."
"Have a good day." She says to him as he walks inside the bank.
"Yup."
He opens the glass doors and is flooded by highly priced air conditioned air. He breathes it in. There is a nervous young man wearing glasses and a permanent smile sitting behind the teller counter. Harold shakes his head at the familiar nod he is accosted with from this little boy in glasses. He stops walking and thinks of going back out to flirt with the young girl outside. Possibly just kidnap her and drive off to Mexico. Keep her there until she learns to love him. Then when she is given the chance to go back to raking pine needles from the ground of her father's bank in this shitty town, she'll beg for forgiveness that she ever teased the idea of leaving him.
Harold walks to the teller and smacks the counter top with the palm of his hand, "I wanna take it all out, Jimmy."
"Got your ID on you today, sir?"
"Fuck you, Jimmy. Give me my money." He tosses his ID on the counter. The boy nervously reads the name.
"Sorry, mister Travee-err."
"It's Travier. No 'r.' Jimmy, god damn it."
"Sorry, sir."
"It doesn't fucking matter."
"How much would you like to take out Mr. Trrav..."
"EE- AA."
"Mr. Trav'ee-aa'." Jimmy puts his shaking hand in his pocket to hide his embarrassment.
"All of it, boy."
Harold looks around as Jimmy tries to make up for being inept; fumbling with his keyboard and mouse. Harold thinks of buying a gun. "Why not?" he considers to himself. "20,000 in my pocket, I'll die before it runs out. Might as well protect my self on the way to the end."
"Wow, that's a lot, sir."
"Jimmy, the amount doesn't concern you. Just give it all to me."
"How would you like it, sir?"
"What'd'ya got? A bag or something?"
Jimmy responds by nodding and then turns around to grab a tote bag from behind him. Harold smiles and nods to Jimmy. It takes a minute for Jimmy to talk to his supervisor. Then it takes another minute for Jimmy to fill the bag with the man's money.
Harold walks out of the bank with a sack of money and a refreshing smile on his face.
"Good-bye, sir." Jimmy meekly says to him.
"Yeah." Harold swings open the front door and back into the sweat conducing thick heat. He sees the buxom bankers daughter continue her exhibitionistic raking routine.
"Tha's a big bag you got there."
Harold stops to count the buttons on her blouse again. "OK."
"Where you going with all that money?"
"Mexico, or Equador, or Cuba maybe."
"Is that so?"
"Don't know. Might change my mind."
"When'll you be back?"
"Don't imagine I'll be back."
"What about your business and all that mister? How will you run your business?"
"Shit. Well, I guess it'll run itself out."
"What about Gladis?"
Harold looks across the street to see Gladis, like a drone, plucking at the keys of her computer.
"She's a big girl, she'll do fine. She's a big girl."
The buxom daughter looks to the needles on the ground and her tone shifts. She's not even posing anymore. Now, instead of being this untouchable icon, she suddenly becomes cute, interesting, vulnerable, and very very touchable.
"Well, I might as well say it. I've been waiting for you to take me out one of these Friday nights."
He looks at her blouse again, and this time nearly laughs, "yeah?"
"Yeah." She rocks on her heels. "And seeing how this is the first time we've talked since you got that place over there... It'll be sad if it's our last."
"Hmm..." he sighs and watches her continually grow younger as her honesty makes her more human, "Well, you're plenty pretty. You'll do fine with out me." He turns and walks.
She calls after him, "Mister." He turns around to see her half exposed breasts bounce their way towards him. She rushes up to him nice and close and then grows increasingly nervous by the moment. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips purse. She rubs his right hand with her left. He grimaces. She looks to him. They share exact opposite gazes. Hers, loving and romantic. His, confused and annoyed.
She takes the opportunity with this proximity to plant a kiss on his cheek, then backs off immediately and exudes an expression as if she's just been slapped. Harold shakes his head, "What the fuck?"
"I love you mister."
"You're confused little girl. You need to get the fuck away from that bank."
He turns, and despite the blubbering jaw of the softly crying girl, leaves at the bank.
He walks to the rear of his office building where his car awaits. He takes the time to put the top down to his convertible Mazda Miata, hops in the front seat with out opening the door and starts her up. He lights a cigarette and takes off around to the front of the building. He stops. He sees the chubby receptionist typing away at some legal paper. He reaches into his bag of money and removes one of the thousand dollar wads of cash. He throws it at the window and scares the piss out of the receptionist when it hits the glass. Startled she brings her hand to her chest. Then, assuming it's a joke she waves at Harold.
"Fuck you, Gladis!" He speeds off in his Miata with his middle finger in the air.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Anything will help
Every time i have sex with my girlfriend I am always thinking of ways to get her fingers in my ass. I've tried directly addressing my issue. she told me to fuck off then stormed out. I went through painful withdrawals from a heroine stint I went on for weeks after she left, but she returned to me and I instantly quit. she made me promise never to ask her of that sexual favor ever again. She then told me of a tragic experience she had when she accidentally killed a previous lover through acts kinky sexual perversion. She couldn't place the actual cause of death but her finger was certainly inside his butt hole when he died. So, naturally, she partly attributes the blame of his death on her self and her desires to finger anything stinky and warm. I respected her wishes, but sometimes she catches me with my own finger in my ass during our love making. we don't speak of those rare occurrences. I forget to take her past into consideration when I attempt to satiate my longing for perverse anal stimulation. I don't feel good about having to hide that desire though. I love this woman. I want it to work out, but speaking of this intense desire of mine seems to push her away. It's like I can even tell when she sees me thinking about it. She looks hurt, but braves the moment of contention between us because she and I both know that what we have is more important than a little finger in my ass. At least that's what all the couple-counselors have told us. But she can't go to anymore of those, we've tried so many and no one seems to be able to help. She cannot handle exposing her vulnerable past to any new ears any longer. So, I've thought to ask you for advice. see what I might be able to do that doesn't include her direct involvement or participation. Anything will help. Thank you.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Controlled anarchy
I don't practice anarchy. I simply think about it all the time. I actually base the majority of my decisions on whether I want to do something or not, then act according to the exact opposite of my desires. Like this woman for instance. She wants me to come home and stick my dick in her. I don't write this as a boast or in confidence or anything with intentions what-so-ever, I state it because she actually told me those words. It was in jest, of course - at least the vulgarity and directness was funny, for both of us - but the imploring was true as time. She rubbed the denim surrounding my crotch to further her sincerity. I know the true desire I have is to take this woman to her home and ravish her; explore, caress and fuck her. That is what women like her want, that is what she is proposing, and that is also what I want. But I'm not going to. I'm not going to because it is what I want. And more times than not I find that acting on what I want leads to a painful experience. Makes me regret that I have wants to begin with. What's the point of wanting or desiring if you cannot act out according to your desires? Well, I have come to believe that I don't need to act on my desires. I have grown contented just having these desires and knowing that they are there. Complacent maybe, but alive and suffering less because of my newly stated philosophy. Acting opposite of my wants and proclivities. It's my only logic. And it has worked wonders for me. It let's me live in the dreams of others. I have grown a group of friends I would have never would have given the time of day before. If this was before, I would have readily punched these "friends" of mine the face if I were to merely see them show their faces at a bar. Granted, I would've been drunk and on a war path for pussy, but I could have devised some justification to take a stand for some cause they were unaware they were offending somehow, and find the feistier one of the crew and taken him out. Then, subsequently, beat the remaining one's fighting out of pride or loyalty, laughing and guffawing at each impact. That to me was indulgence. That to me was life. I own everything.
Now I have these friends because they don't want me drunk. They don't want me dead. They don't really even want me. I'm just there. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same one as the last weekend. They really don't care. It really doesn't matter to them or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care, that would consequently spawn expectation of "catching up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke large cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it is appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it is appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured. I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from my neighbors cabinet. I reads "Amoxapine" (an anit-depressant) but I tell them it's diclofenac and that it is an instant relief for me. Only it isn't. It's just another lie. Smarties. I swallow smarties as my psychosomatic cure to suppressing all of my desires. If I can make it this far I can change my perspective to actually become engrossed in these activities, to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. My desires will shrink, and soon enough disappear. This will be my life. These will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. I may even mary one of these women on my arm. I will have a system and I will live it out until I die. I'm slowly loosing some indications that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaineous indulgences. I am slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior. Unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders and addictions and confusion I must purge before I can face another human. I'm loosing my ability to loose control. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, contoling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a diclofenac in down my throat almost by second nature now, but it does nothing other than save face. My eyes still swell and tear up. My every hair still tingles and my face warms with rushing blood. I think of painful harm I could do to everyone in these moments. I think of having sex with icons of purity; only to defile them. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migranes. This woman works at a cafe, sleeps at nine every night only to wake and do yoga at 6. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as being the guidance for all our pre-destined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: Attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and a neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle that gives her the courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to slam my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not any of the women on my shoulder at weekend parties. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly and why then, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. I take another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
Now I have these friends because they don't want me drunk. They don't want me dead. They don't really even want me. I'm just there. I'm a number on their list of party members to invite. I go to these parties every weekend. I bring a different girl every time. Sometimes they ask about her. Sometimes they think it's the same one as the last weekend. They really don't care. It really doesn't matter to them or to me. It's all easier that way. No pretending. No attempting to care, that would consequently spawn expectation of "catching up" when we re-unite. We don't catch up. We talk politics. We talk sports. We talk stats and theorize. We smoke large cigars, souvenirs from recently returning from some trip to a beach that is hard for most of us to pronounce. My woman hangs on my shoulder and kisses my cheek when it is appropriate. Kisses me when I squeeze her. So, I actually let her know when it is appropriate. It's a game. It's easy. It's clear. It's simple and structured. I do cringe now and then, but they all think I have a chronic migraine problem. I actually carry a bottle I swiped from my neighbors cabinet. I reads "Amoxapine" (an anit-depressant) but I tell them it's diclofenac and that it is an instant relief for me. Only it isn't. It's just another lie. Smarties. I swallow smarties as my psychosomatic cure to suppressing all of my desires. If I can make it this far I can change my perspective to actually become engrossed in these activities, to enjoy these surroundings I subject myself to. My desires will shrink, and soon enough disappear. This will be my life. These will be my friends. I will grow to love these political discussions. I may even mary one of these women on my arm. I will have a system and I will live it out until I die. I'm slowly loosing some indications that I'm controlled by my wants to satisfy my spontaineous indulgences. I am slowly closing the door on unpredictable behavior. Unregulated fits of mania that lead to benders and addictions and confusion I must purge before I can face another human. I'm loosing my ability to loose control. And I'm learning, conditioning, training, contoling myself to love it. Almost anyway. Almost everything is fine. Everything but the cringe that creeps up my neck and makes me smash my teeth together. I toss a diclofenac in down my throat almost by second nature now, but it does nothing other than save face. My eyes still swell and tear up. My every hair still tingles and my face warms with rushing blood. I think of painful harm I could do to everyone in these moments. I think of having sex with icons of purity; only to defile them. I think of fucking an elderly woman who attends church. I think of fucking my neighbor who I stole the pill bottle from. I think of fucking this neighbor of mine so often when I get these migranes. This woman works at a cafe, sleeps at nine every night only to wake and do yoga at 6. She speaks of the "oneness," she speaks of the "energy" as being the guidance for all our pre-destined fates. I want to punch her every time she speaks. She is the one on these anti-depressants. She's a living contradiction: Attributing her happiness to her stretching exercises and sleeping patterns and a neo-hippy attitude, when I know she's only happy because some fucking bottle of pills she refills once a month. A bottle that gives her the courage to get out of bed and face the shitty world. I swallow those emotions of hate when in her presence. I know it's for the better. If I acted on that desire, the desire to slam my fist through her face, I wouldn't have my bottle for my psychosomatic gimmick; my self-controlling gimmick. I want to fuck her and not any of the women on my shoulder at weekend parties. This neighbor makes me start thinking in complicated terms. Why do I want to smash her face so badly and why then, when I'm not in her presence, does she make me think of fucking her? This is the thought process I am determined to squash. I take another smartie.
The woman on my shoulder is the one I will fuck. She is not complicated. She's as simple as turning on a electronic devise. She kisses me and laughs when I squeeze. She's as good as any electronic devise I have ever used. She has a purpose. She will make me cum. Just as a dish-washing machine will clean my dishes. Just as a button will open a garage door. She has a function. I swallow complication and I function in simplicity. It's only the cringing that I need to master. Once I can control that, I can live.
Monday, March 16, 2009
feeling lonely
I saw this kid. Fat, tubby, little, smiley one. Holding an ice cream cone: a perfect mid western vacation photo. Looking at him I couldn't hold back a certain thought: "piggy little spoiled shit!" I surprised my self. I instantly turned all my focus to figuring why this thought had come to me. I had no Idea who this small child was, who raised him, what his interests were, what he laughs at, what makes him scared, how he acts during fits of extreme hunger, how he defends himself against criticisms, what he says when he considers himself witty, or how he perceives women. But for some reason this child beckoned my contempt. He seemed so confident with his ice cream. A shameless dull expression, thinking of nothing of worth, and staring, unselfconsciously, at air and the colors behind it. I could not understand how this child somehow possessed such haughty self-righteousness, and I could only wonder how this small person, this dwarf - not just in size but also, and more importantly, mental development - could have already discovered or conjured up a philosophy that was justification to such a self-implored stature or countenance with so little amount of years under the belt.
His face screamed ignorance. Screamed of accepting some bland assurance that exuding a vapid facial expression to parallel the lack of thought was somehow his shell of safety. And what amazed and disgusted me was the feeling of security surrounding him. Free from self-consciousness. Free from what I'm plagued to believe is one of humanities most prominent traits. I look at this boy. I shake my head at this creature. I do not relate to this thing. If I were to some how believe that I would soon or ever think that the thing I'm looking at now belongs in the same category of species as I do, I would need to condition this entity to grow a human condition I'm more aware of. I would need to break this boy. I would need to smack his ridiculous ice cream cone out of his chubby fingers and spit in his face. That would show him unexpected things like that do happen, and that maybe he should eat his ice cream a little more alert. Maybe next time he finds himself in another alien, blank, thoughtless trance he would remember being slapped. And that would give him something to think about. If I could see him in this moment of growth I might recognize that there is thought behind the ruddy soft skin of his obese face. Then I think I could relate to him. I could believe he's from a species that I ascribe myself to.
I don't often think about violence, but this little pink boy is taking me there. Taking me to place in my head that imagines acting out the need to perform some irrational occurrence that doesn't belong to a clock he somehow seems to tick to; to a schedule he abides by, a routine he performs, a television air time he prepares for, a predictable joke or a predictable meal in a predictable family setting, or a recent hit song from his father's radio; something that he might not all together expect but would certainly not be surprised by. I wanted to be that surprise that he never would have expected. I wanted to give this boy an instance of life that he wasn't expecting and was shaken by. Something that existed outside of his realm of understanding. Something he's never imagined experiencing. Something not a part of himself. Something he non-voluntarily received from a selfish vehement person who wanted to lessen this kid's self-importance and self assured security that nothing bad could possibly happen to him. Nothing God hadn't planned. I'm not even sure why God even came to my mind at that point, but, but now I'm sure this little boy inadvertently shot me the thought through his mannerisms. Mannerisms that mimicked the way people act when avoiding mingling after a sermon or at a church reception. People who believe they should be there when they seek nothing from the experience other than to occupy time. People I've despised. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of that type of community. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of the Lord. People that condoned the belief in these empty promises. People that solicited this belief. I thought to myself:
"Well, my little one, I will give you a little jarring when I slap the cone out of your hand and spit in your face. I can predict you will have two ways of interpreting this: one; that this "God," this strange enigmatic entity you subscribe to, well, he works in funny ways, and it is up to you and your closer confidants to define a meaning to draw from this experience; or, two; you could all together stop believing in God entirely, and be driven mad by endless surmises of what could possibly have driven such an act as reproachable as knocking your ice cream from your hands and spitting in your eyes. My angered grimace of loathing will stain your memory of that shock to your reality. You'll never understand how someone could hate you so much, but you'd be troubled by the thought that such hate exists. Our worlds merged and it wasn't in some congenial formality you've been acculturated to view how all interactions should take place or have a hint of to warm all involved with a sense of familiarity. A familiar awkwardness that is ubiquitously accepted from community to community, from state to state, country to country, culture to culture."
Our worlds merged and your sense of security was broken. Sense of familiarity; shattered. The moment is something I own alone. And I would pass on the awareness to recognize the ability to own a moment. Because we all need to. He didn't seem understand that. Didn't seem to know he possessed that potential. And I need to believe that we all do.
His face screamed ignorance. Screamed of accepting some bland assurance that exuding a vapid facial expression to parallel the lack of thought was somehow his shell of safety. And what amazed and disgusted me was the feeling of security surrounding him. Free from self-consciousness. Free from what I'm plagued to believe is one of humanities most prominent traits. I look at this boy. I shake my head at this creature. I do not relate to this thing. If I were to some how believe that I would soon or ever think that the thing I'm looking at now belongs in the same category of species as I do, I would need to condition this entity to grow a human condition I'm more aware of. I would need to break this boy. I would need to smack his ridiculous ice cream cone out of his chubby fingers and spit in his face. That would show him unexpected things like that do happen, and that maybe he should eat his ice cream a little more alert. Maybe next time he finds himself in another alien, blank, thoughtless trance he would remember being slapped. And that would give him something to think about. If I could see him in this moment of growth I might recognize that there is thought behind the ruddy soft skin of his obese face. Then I think I could relate to him. I could believe he's from a species that I ascribe myself to.
I don't often think about violence, but this little pink boy is taking me there. Taking me to place in my head that imagines acting out the need to perform some irrational occurrence that doesn't belong to a clock he somehow seems to tick to; to a schedule he abides by, a routine he performs, a television air time he prepares for, a predictable joke or a predictable meal in a predictable family setting, or a recent hit song from his father's radio; something that he might not all together expect but would certainly not be surprised by. I wanted to be that surprise that he never would have expected. I wanted to give this boy an instance of life that he wasn't expecting and was shaken by. Something that existed outside of his realm of understanding. Something he's never imagined experiencing. Something not a part of himself. Something he non-voluntarily received from a selfish vehement person who wanted to lessen this kid's self-importance and self assured security that nothing bad could possibly happen to him. Nothing God hadn't planned. I'm not even sure why God even came to my mind at that point, but, but now I'm sure this little boy inadvertently shot me the thought through his mannerisms. Mannerisms that mimicked the way people act when avoiding mingling after a sermon or at a church reception. People who believe they should be there when they seek nothing from the experience other than to occupy time. People I've despised. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of that type of community. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of the Lord. People that condoned the belief in these empty promises. People that solicited this belief. I thought to myself:
"Well, my little one, I will give you a little jarring when I slap the cone out of your hand and spit in your face. I can predict you will have two ways of interpreting this: one; that this "God," this strange enigmatic entity you subscribe to, well, he works in funny ways, and it is up to you and your closer confidants to define a meaning to draw from this experience; or, two; you could all together stop believing in God entirely, and be driven mad by endless surmises of what could possibly have driven such an act as reproachable as knocking your ice cream from your hands and spitting in your eyes. My angered grimace of loathing will stain your memory of that shock to your reality. You'll never understand how someone could hate you so much, but you'd be troubled by the thought that such hate exists. Our worlds merged and it wasn't in some congenial formality you've been acculturated to view how all interactions should take place or have a hint of to warm all involved with a sense of familiarity. A familiar awkwardness that is ubiquitously accepted from community to community, from state to state, country to country, culture to culture."
Our worlds merged and your sense of security was broken. Sense of familiarity; shattered. The moment is something I own alone. And I would pass on the awareness to recognize the ability to own a moment. Because we all need to. He didn't seem understand that. Didn't seem to know he possessed that potential. And I need to believe that we all do.
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