an ode to bullshitting your way through life.

having fun, friend? i hope so. but fun is short-lived, just like everything else, because everything that ever is has to end.

(what’s at the beginning of eternity and at the end of the universe? e.)

how do you think you’ll go? will you go for the drama, Sylvia Plath style? or will you quietly waste away in an old folk’s home, ass submerged in a fetid pool of your own piss?

(RIP: rest in piss.)

do you ever think about that? i do. i hope i don’t rest in piss, because i don’t think i’d feel too satisfied with that. i’d watch my own dead husk of a body after i floated out of it, fist going through the ceiling as i shook it in despair. “what the fuck was that?! that’s not how i wanted to go! i demand a redo!”

except there are no redoes. fucking dead as shit is fucking dead as shit, my friend. and that’s never going to change. life’s no video game.

it’s still amusing, how hard you try. and i’m still not sorry for laughing when you trip over your own feet. it’s okay, because i do the exact same thing. in that respect, i guess we’re the same.

someone should really be responsible for this big fat bloody mess, because that’s all this is, i suppose.

and now i think it’s time for me to go. will i be back one day? i don’t know. but if i ever am, you can bet your ass i’ll be saying, “i told you so.”

create shittily and shit creatively.

vapid pustules don't get a free parking pass just because they're pretty. they've gotta earn that, everybody has to earn that. no one has a right to anything and no one has a wrong to anything. write right and wrong, a veritable volatile pair of catastrophes. that skin sack of human waste crossing the street when the light goes green? that's just someone searching for death, disappointed that they don't have it yet. "why not me? why not now?" because they're looking for it. death answers to no one and pays unexpected visits to many, like that one asshole friend everybody has who says they'll stay for one night and ends up staying for the whole week. clogging up your toilet, eating all your food, taking up all your space. yet still you love them. that's what death is. just everybody's asshole friend. except it doesn't stay for a week, it stays for eternity. fuckthisshit. seems a lot like sticking a fork in an electrical outlet just to see what'll happen: stupid. it all appears so wonderful, and then later all the flaws show: every error, every misplaced stitch, every tear. putting it together could be compared to pulling the stitches out of an unhealed laceration, pulling them out too soon, peeling the skin apart just to see what it looks like inside. painful. but pain is life and life is pain, so at the same time, it's a lot like creating life. once it's out of my hands, it's not mine anymore. and all the poor, sniveling, bleeding hearts are crying for nothing. red white and blue blood cells mixed with salt water and untold amounts of naiveté, that's all they really are. but they smashed the mirrors on the walls before they had the chance to see themselves. there will be no pity. there will be no remorse. there will be no love. there will be no anything. and that's just the way it will be.

the art of lying is a science: i'll put on my lab coat and my safety goggles and tinker inside your head until all you see is what i want you to see. you'll wonder, "have i gone blind? or was i blind all my life, and it's only just now that i've realized what all this is?" and i'll slyly grin, baring my teeth in a way that hopefully doesn't threaten you, tucking my demon's tail away and out of sight, pleasantly answering, "i don't know, you tell me." what a farce it is, a tasteless, turgid, terrible show, poorly written and scarcely rehearsed. the actors are all shams, ghouls and frauds, devils and beggars and thieves and cheats. such a shame that something so beautiful could actually be so ugly. not many can see behind the thick draping of those velvet curtains, but i see. i see everything. and you see nothing, because i've kept everything from you. take a scalpel and slice through my chest, peel back the thick draping of this velvet flesh, crack the cage of ivory bone, have a peek inside at all these holy terrors. they're living in me. i am them, and they are me. (this isn't a horror story. nor is it a horrible declaration of self-emaciation. it's a warning. be careful who you believe.)

it's not even funny how often i have to keep myself from diving at your throat. venom-filled teeth, straight for the jugular. misguided, misdirected rage and scathing irritation, boiling up while vultures circle overhead, occasionally dropping in to pick at the bones. ("the vultures ate my baby today.") whose bones, i wonder. or is it more of a what, an it, a thing, a sigh a frown a tear a sob a scream a whine a a a a b c the end yet? do you? useless outlets for pitiful talents, it all gets torn to bits, anyway. you give yourself to people and they take and they take and they take and you'll never get it back, so don't give it away. the problem here is that no one really trusts anyone else. but maybe it's better to trust no one, prepare for the worst. make sure to have a survival kit ready for this black fucking hole in my black fucking soul, assuming they even make them anymore. hunker down and wait it out, and hope that i don't set it upon everything that ever existed. i'm sorry that my insides are as sooty and repulsive as an uncleaned chimney, really, i am. or maybe i'm not. it's not like i've ever really tried to scrub everything out, anyway, because it's all part of who i am. (professional opinion says that's about as unhealthy as living solely off shitty fast food and cocaine. fuck professional, let's fight it out, motherfucker, are you ready for a fucking fight, motherfucker.) i don't give a fuck about how that makes you feel. maybe that's just the bastard in me. desperation overwhelming hopeless drowning darkness drifting nighttime nightmares not even close to sleeping i'm obsessed with not obsessing perfect storms and endless screaming open your eyes just open your fucking eyes fucker i hate pretty much everything i do, and i learned that from you (only you no one else just you do you see the joke now do you do you). i guess i really am your bastard. you fucking sucker.

my poor, overheated, gasping gray matter is running out of oxygen, much like a suicidal student sealed in an airtight garage with the engine running. dull thudding thudding thudding thud. drip. pour. splash. overflow. back up quick now. your eyes are full of hornets and black widow spiders, so please don't get too close to me. one third social awkwardness mixed with two parts stone cold livin' can do this to a person. typewriter teeth champing at the bit, foaming excess ink and clacking sounds. ding. time to change everything. change the mind and you change the body. change the body and you change the mind. but this takes time, effort, and money. dinosaurs could live without money, so why can't we? "because we're not dinosaurs, our brains are bigger than walnuts." ah, but size doesn't matter when it's splattered against the wall. then the mind doesn't matter, because it's kaput, pushing up daisies, gonezo. then the body doesn't matter, because the mask that all the world sees is disintegrated, because everyone looks the same when they've been decapitated by a shot gun shell. then nothing matters.

smacking against rock bottom. fallen headfirst down that rabbit hole out of fucking nowhere, eyes wide, limbs flailing. "i'm losing sleep, i'm losing friends." my only apology is that I have none to give. either way, the show must go on (and on and on and on and on and on and quitfuckingthisupnow). marching to the beat of a funeral dirge. but is it mine? who the fuck knows. no one knows anything. metastasizing. losing my place in the li(f)e i apparently lead, and watching it all spiral. "houston, we have a problem." fuck houston. ground control’s got no control over anything, just like everyone else. still floundering through empty airspace, gone catatonically comatose. i'm always sour to the taste, bitter to the end, selfish to a fault. i'd love for you to hate my guts if they weren’t already covered in ulcers that only a mother could love. apologize? are you even listening? there's no more room for my skeleton(s). the one inside this horribly heavy, hindered body climbs out of its skin and walks the world, all by itself, light and free. that sickening feeling when you’re not yourself. i'm not myself. who is myself? myself is no one. that's who I am. no one.

never trust a pumpkin.

i still don't care about your bright, feeble existence. but then you never cared much for mine, did you? what were we? a pair of grinning jack o' lanterns, you used to say. sitting together, precariously balanced on someone's front stoop. then the nighttime hooligans came 'round with a cacophony of sound. they had two to choose from, you and i. you were the one who got to live, there on that stoop until your smile rotted and sagged. a peaceful garbage can grave. i was the one they destroyed, thrown into the street, scooped up again, battered until the cheap electric tea light in my guts cracked and went dark. left to decompose in the gutter, sun bleached, a snack for hungry vermin. and your frozen smile watched all the while, gloating. pretending to grieve, but really just glad that it wasn't you.

(welcome to the common trend, where newcomers are loathe to tread, the copycats and copies carbon frolicked as they bled) this is a stream of consciousness, a watercolor of vomit green and bile yellow, if you will, medievally planned and clumsily executed. rolling down the stairs like the bewigged head of a sadist monarch, a butterfly of a queen. a rainbow of lust and greed lives within a bruise, the secret and private ruse that so many carefully shed; sticking the ends of their fingernails underneath the liquid latex visages that the world knew so well, hidden beneath lies another layer of paint and capillaries. peel back careful and slow, so it doesn’t stick to the hairline. you lost everything when you watched the sun implode and extinguish into a pool of unknown light, so bright white and blinding that it just about seared the eyeballs out of your face. squeamish sliming vermin was its name, and so it came creeping and crawling while they all tried to stomp it dead dead dead with their jackbooted feet. i know because i was there. and now my feet grow cold and icy in the draft, yet there are no socks to be found. for it’s cold as hell here in hell, not fiery but icy, and so very cold and dark. storm clouds are here storms so full of bright night stars and crackling lightning bolts of angsty bullshit that the world probably doesn’t need. rolling thunder strikes first, the grumble of complaints and angry pit bulls, streaming and running and screaming. try and wash it clean, but you know you never will. time stains everything like blood stains skin and coffee stains white tablecloths. everything appears so great and so grand so bright and shiny and new, but half the time it never really is. words slither away like wet stones clatter out of the beaks of curious chickens. imagine a tyrannosaurus rex attempting to pick up a fork and knife, tearing into its food with such fiendish instruments like a civilized brute, like all the civilized brutes do. that is what the world is. tears need not be mentioned, the damned leaking of saltwater. humanity saw its end the moment we realized that there would be one.

fury and melancholy are like fire and ice. they exist in the same spheres; there can't be one without the other. one would think that fire conquers all, but the coldest ends of the earth can't be touched by the sun. fury and melancholy consume and freeze and burn, until there's nothing left. they can't be fought, only tamed. fuck you. there's nothing any of us can do. we're just ants with boots hovering over our heads. strange dreams. do ants dream? goddamnit. it's strange, how they can draw you in. it's so nice, for a time. and then you come to your senses and realize: they don't want you.

please allow me to say just this one thing i have found many places where i do not belong but this one is always the worst please pay attention to me i’m sorry for begging, even though i haven’t said a single word it’s just that i don’t think (operative word: think) i’ll ever belong anywhere don’t pray for me, because i could care less about you and, obviously, you feel the same sorry sorry sorry wishes are only wishes, because the truth is, no one gets what they want and i must be riding for some kind of fall, although i can’t tell what it is but i feel it in my bones crumbled to dust bones, and i know it’s true

There’s no belief in anything, because there are so many dead trees here, but they only look dead in my dreams "the only thing i’ve lost is my mind" Mind mind mind mind your manners, fool, swallow the bait and take the poison Let it eat out your insides and lose it loseloseloseloser Dream Can you? Not anymore, I wonder why you left but now I see "so now i’ve lost my mind" Shut it out shut it out shut it out out out outside Take the easy way out again, can’t forget, don’t forget "maybe life didn’t want this part of me" I don’t know why I ever tried

my head dreams of what my heart can never be i found god on a street corner, screaming at pigeons there's no sense screaming at unwanted weddings you found death at a bar in tokyo, dealing out smack and crystallized disease no change keep everything they gave you schizophrenia seems like clarity compared to all this muck no change it's still the same polarized galaxies begging for the kill, drooling comets and earth ending asteroids we'd all boil in our skins not much to look forward to, but stop looking backward street signs aren't labeled that way i found hope, at the bottom of the well you found despair, in the hollowed out smile of a woman whose baby had died "but...is that all there was? is that all i get?" "yes, i'm afraid so." hungry eyes keep searching

there should really be apology cards for nonexisting "get well soon hope you can recover from your shitty personality" a plethora of silly little cartoons and meaningless verbiage, in every color of the rainbow fuck that's not what anyone's really looking for, is it? cardstock holds no closure and it all ends up in the recycling bin, anyway with all the shit and the blood and the piss of humanity we all end up in the recycling bin, anyway so, i suppose, humans are a bit like greeting cards we're fun for a little while, but we get thrown away when others get bored of us it's so easy to find boredom these days, in a generation of people who spend more time staring at pixels and wavelengths than they do looking at inked pieces of paper such environmentally conscious suns of beaches, since trees don't die for computers they must be so proud

still waiting for your train, taxi, car, plane. don’t keep waiting, just go. please leave. that motormouth will take you wherever you want, whirring and buzzing along, the occasional stutter or single syllable speedbump the only thing that stops you. i don’t have much in comparison to you. full of thunderclouds and dreams and dissatisfying satisfactions. tiny little drips of words drip drop drip drop until suddenly good old indy comes sprinting through, giant rolling sphere hot on his trail like a bowling ball knocking down all the pins of resistance. then it’s not a drip, it’s a flood, and i’ll fucking drown you in me. bumping down the road, teeth gnawing through your lips. there’s a canyon up ahead, but you don’t see the forest for the trees. don’t worry, i’ll catch you, for the crags and the spires and the danger at the bottom will turn to dust. roiling, lazy guts filled with nothing but instamessage bloops and noxious coffee grounds. that’s nothing that anyone (anyonemeaningyouormeoryouoranyone) wants to see.

time holds a loaded gun to my head warm words can’t stop the freeze i just feel sorry for all the murky, smog-filled sunsets you’ll never get to see toxic cause and nauseating effect, beaten and bound and left on the side of the road for dead now we’re shooting golden bullet holes in the velvet black sky and you’re too busy sweating like a criminal on the stand they're all technological zombies lost in a digital sea pull the plugs in their heads and watch it collapse and decay this city is a sin and they’re all goddamn(ed) devils everybody's got their own devils waking up asleep and falling asleep awake every dream has its thorns

please make me believe in _________ i want to know what it's like your hands are so soft yet so cold maybe i held them for too long and the skin began to crack and peel, burned by my stupid little star or maybe i've never held them at all

ignorantworthlessshittynothinginadequateinadequateinadequate whybotherwhybotherwhyevenbotherdon’tevenbother

(we get sick so we can feel better, they keep us sick… i’m still sick, I WANT TO FEEL BETTER)

papa was a rolling stone and mama didn’t roll at all

just another hopeless, helpless, seamless idiot with patriarchal issues no forward road no backward road no road at all and no wheels to ignore it with can’t make your own road if you can’t even hold the goddamn shovel sniveling, sweating, crying, useless weakling

you woke up into a nightmare, didn’t you?

(and i can see it everywhere, i feel that there's no shelter, shelter here)

congratulations, you wrecked up twisted up confused beyond belief shitstain: you won nothing