A Little Group Called The Beatles

The Beatles have always been everything to me all the time.

Just listened to some of The White Album as I ate a bowl of Strawberry/Vanilla Chex this morning. 

(Editor's note - Never go for the flavored version of something that shouldn't be flavored. I love Chex. Corn, rice - wheat not so much, but I can chow it when I want to. Strawberry/Vanilla flavored Chex sucks. My tongue asks "What is this artificially flavored bullshit?" I will be grabbing a box of Corn Chex next week when food shopping, just so I can wipe this horrible "taste" out of my mouth forever.)

When I was a kid The Beatles made me feel like a rebel. I was going to live a different life because I could - I was never going to be my parents, I was never going to be bored, I was never going to be boring. You know how that all turned out.

As I aged, The Beatles sometimes made me happy, sometimes they ministered to my depression, sometimes they made me stop and think. As I got even older they kind of depressed me because I knew for a fact that I became exactly what my parents were and there was no turning around, no fixing it. Despite the hope and perspective the lads inspired in me as a kid.

I am now waging a new war. Desperate to orchestrate "the rest of my life" in a way that makes my soul smile. I need some sort of redemption in the time that's left or I will die a Loser. I despise the image of The Devil laughing at me for eternity as I suffer because of my own stupidity.

"Birthday" - a great song because it's so cheaky. Who writes a new birthday song?

"Yer Blues" - Dark and ponderous, weighing heavy on the soul.

"Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For Me and My Monkey" - Rock 'n roll baby, with interesting lyrics and a better title.

"Sexy Sadie" - A slap in the face to the Maharishi, who John lost faith in after a time.

"Helter Skelter" - Rock 'n roll, baby - rock 'n roll.

These songs feed into my determination beautifully. They made me smile. SMILE. I scowl more than I smile. In fact I scowl morning, noon, and night. 

I am getting more broken every day, dangerously so, because my life continues along this ridiculous path even though I have lost all patience for it. ALL PATIENCE FOR IT. I want to scream every day.

The important thing is that, diving back into The Beatles from where I am at now, gives me inspiration and fuel. Soon, I am either going to explode and walk away from everything that gnaws at my soul, or I'm going to find a solution to put a smile on my corpse. There is no longer any middle ground.

I am deeply emotional and subject to the depth and intensity of my moods. Been feeling despair in 2026 as I run out of time. Lately though, determination has reared it's ugly head. Born of frustration. When Hate gets powerful enough, you have to act.

We'll see, we'll see. The odds are stacked high against me, baby.

Then again, against all odds.....................

(Editor's note - I have been whining like a little bitch ever since I started vomiting in here 15 years ago. At some point, I have to evolve, don't I? At some point I have to win.)

Definition of a Dangerous Man

"Where does the good man go after his blood has been 

taken

and his teeth are held in the palms of his hands?

He wanders deep into his own shadow,

where he no longer bleeds and where his bite

is reborn."

From Dead of Winter by Stephen Mack Jones

When I Die

 "When I die, I won't feel any different than I do today."

A hush came over one corner of the cocktail party as Johnny spoke these words. Johnny never had any sense of what was around him; he sucked at reading the room.

People were drinking, talking, laughing, flirting - it was Friday night and everyone in the room was happy as hell to be away from their fucking jobs. Deliriously joyous. Until..........

Anyway, Monique unwisely asked "What the hell are you talking about, Johnny?"

Johnny spun on his heel and looked her right in the eye.

"I'm fucking dead already, do I have to spell it out for you? I feel nothing, nothing at all. I'm fucking bored, I am unfulfilled as a human being. I hate my fucking job, my paycheck embarrasses me, I drive a fucking Hyundai, I live in a studio apartment in a building filled with assholes, and my diet consists of Cheetos and Spam."

Monique unwisely commented "So what you're saying is that you are not living your best life."

Johnny, loudly: "I fucking hate that saying. It is pure bullshit. No one lives their best life. It is not allowed, it is not possible. Like the fucking American Dream. Carlin got it right - He said "the reason it's called the American Dream is because you have to be asleep to believe it. Fuck your best life."

Monique walked away, towards the bar. Time for something a bit stronger than white wine.

People began edging away, but Johnny was on a roll.

"I started killing myself decades ago. Little by little, I lost my edge. Crushing my feelings down into a pocket of pus, leaving an enormous fucking void. My sense of humor disappeared, replaced by pure sarcasm. Poison-filled and knife-edged. Hope was the first to die; I don't miss it. You might as well believe in the Tooth Fairy. Once hope goes, the delusion that you are in control of your life, that you actually have options, dies along with it. Your life is a prison and you are going to die in that cell."

Ralphie was the only one left close by. "Johnny, let's get out of here, hit a bar, get our drink on, and check out for a while."

Johnny responded "Fuck that and fuck you. What am I going to do? Sit around a bar listening to other people whine about their lives, lives that suck every bit as much as mine? Or pretend to be happy while they pretend to be happy as the bar gets thick with despair and reality? A reality that kills, slowly, painfully, torturously, and treacherously. Decades of suffering. People suck, Ralphie, and I don't want anything to do with them."

Ralphie walked away shaking his head.

Johnny decided to slip out of the party and go home. Turns out he didn't have to slip; no one was anywhere near him. "They are all fucking fools", he thought, "with their phony live your best life bullshit. Fuck them, fuck my parents, fuck my boss, fuck this joke of a life that is supposed to be so fucking precious."

He went home, grabbed his whiskey bottle and dialed up Requiem for a Dream on the TV. His favorite movie because it was utterly hopeless, filled with despair and desperation and suffering. 

And if he was still awake he would dial up Affliction with Nick Nolte and James Coburn. Nolte melts down in that movie like nobody's business, just fucking falls apart. Loses both his jobs, his girlfriend, his wife and daughter, and kills his father. Ends up drunk and alone.

Which is what Johnny expects for himself. Doesn't bother him at all for that to be his future.

Life is a vicious, sadistic, joke. The only way to deal with it is alone, with a bottle of whiskey, and dead dreams. Johnny turned up the volume.

He was happy.

Practically Perfect

I am practically perfect. 

There is only one change I can make that might improve things.

I need to start giving a shit.

Maybe.

Hail The Scumbags

"The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast."

Oscar Wilde

Vicious, greedy, violent, hateful, selfish, stupid, people prance across the stage. Every minute of every fucking day. They spit on their audience.

Sensitive, loving, intelligent people wait in the wings - understudies looking for a chance. They will never get it. They will never fucking get it.

The world is not built to reward people who feel empathy. It is built to reward scumbags, cheaters, liars - people who are happy to shit on everyone below them as they climb the ladder to a fat bank account.

Those with empathy look up from below and are rewarded with feces to the face. They wipe it off, unconvincingly, and take another step up - right into a torrent of rancid bile that knocks them off the ladder, to a hard landing on top of the endless pile of fools who came before.

This is the game. This is what it has always been.

Oscar Wilde understood.

Can I Help You?

"Tell me why you hate your job at the restaurant."

The answer: "It's having to fake pleasantness that makes me feel both worthless and lonely."

That, my friends, in a nutshell, is why working in customer service sucks.

Part of a dialogue from a short story called "Something About Birds" by Paul Tremblay.

Either Way

It is as helpful to meditate on the meaningless of life, as it is to meditate on the meaning of life.