Thursday, December 1, 2016

Sweet Visions of Release

Retail is a vicious and blood drenched sport.

Shoppers are scurrilous dogs - there can be no escaping that fact. Underdeveloped intellectually and psychologically, they seek gratification in being waited on. Makes them feel superior.

Even though they are less consequential than the shit beneath the shoes.

Who are these people? What mutation resulted in the shopper psyche?

Strange people, wandering around the store with an unnatural, Satan-like light in their eyes. Pawing through racks of clothes, choosing this, discarding that.

"Can I set these things (all 18 of them) down here while I continue to shop?"

"Sure, if you have a death wish. If you want me and mine to feast on your liver tonight."

Slithering into the dressing room to try things on. Loving themselves in the mirror. Like clothes will wash the stink off of their rotting souls.

Leaving stuff behind. Lots of stuff. Some on hangers, some on the floor. The hangers themselves tangled together like thoughts in an otherwise empty head.

Wrestling with tangled hangers is more frustrating than dealing with life itself; it provokes feelings of great vengeance and furious anger.

Visions of mutilated shoppers provide the only relief.

"How much did you charge me for that green sweater? It's supposed to be a dollar, you know."

"How much will you charge me to remove your head with a scythe?"

Closing time. One of their kind approaches the counter with a cart filled to the brim with clothes and fucking Christmas ornaments and that VHS player they just had to have to validate their stubborn clinging to the past, like a demented nonagenarian who recites names of childhood friends while forgetting to bathe.

The clock ticks past closing time and three other creatures wait impatiently behind idiot shopper #1, who babbles incoherently as precious purchases are rung up.

You wish with everything that is in your heart for the power to make her head explode just by thinking about it. Picturing brain bits slowly sliding down the walls as shopper #2 steps up to take her place.


Retail is the jungle, baby. It makes killers of us all.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Things He Longed To Know

He wondered, if you have a really sharp knife and you choose an exact spot, can violation of the flesh be almost effortless?

If you avoid bone, can stabbing someone be like slicing a pat of butter from your butter dish?

It would appear so. At least on the surface.

Can it be that easy? Nothing is that easy, right?

It would take some research to discern this but he was not afraid - he was a reader. He enjoyed looking things up.

It must be a satisfying sensation, assuming you choose the right victim. You really have to hate them.

You have to believe in your soul that you are doing the world a favor.

If there are any doubts at all, regret will consume you at just the wrong point - immediately after penetration.

And then it is too late. You can't just say "Oops, I'm sorry - I made a mistake. How can I make it right?"

It is doubtful the victim, assuming they survive, will just let it go. There are a lot of mistakes that can be forgiven in this life but stabbing is not one of them.

Of this he was fairly certain.

Then there is the eye contact thing. He wondered, first of all, if he would have the guts to look the victim in the eye as he perpetrated the awful sin.

He wanted to believe that was possible. Because he wanted to experience the brief moment between the recognition of being stabbed and the onset of pain. He wanted to see it.

There has to be a momentary lapse. An instant when the eyes are wide with shock and then suddenly squinting from unimaginable pain.

There should be a name for that moment. That void between a sudden grasp of an evil reality and the all consuming blanket of pain.

He couldn't come up with one, though. He wasn't that clever.

He liked to consider these things over a sophisticated merlot at night, alone, in the dark, where his life made the most sense.

But sometimes the thoughts bled over into the following morning.

He didn't like this. They seemed more sinister in the light of day. More real.

Today was one of those days. Fortunately he had no time to dwell. Had to get to work.

He loved his job as a career counselor at the local high school.

Loved that he could take students' vulnerability and steer them in the right direction.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Got Some Words For You

I was working on my life with Leonard Cohen on "in the background".

Of course that is ridiculous - his talent will not be ignored.

So...................from "Bird On A Wire":

"Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free."

Kris Kristofferson has said he would like these words etched on his gravestone.


"Like a baby, stillborn, like a beast with his horn, I have torn everyone who has reached out for me."

These words mean something to me.


"I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch, he said to me, you must not ask for so much; and a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door, she cried to me, hey, why not ask for more?"

All of these meaningful words originate from one Leonard Cohen song.

The man was an endless well of inspiration and introspection.

Monday, November 28, 2016

Like Coming Home

Rediscovered American Horror Story.

Thank God.

I connect only with freaks, mutants, and broken spirits.

Happiness Debunked

"It is proposed that happiness be classified as a psychiatric disorder and be included in future editions of major diagnostic manuals under the new name: major affective disorder, pleasant type. In a review of the relevant literature it is shown that happiness is statistically abnormal, consists of a discrete cluster of symptoms, is associated with a range of cognitive abnormalities, and probably reflects the abnormal functioning of the central nervous system. One possible objection to this proposal remains-that happiness is not negatively valued. However, this objection is dismissed as scientifically irrelevant."

I randomly came across this proposal in my reading and was immediately overjoyed.

It potentially exposes happiness as a sham, an unattainable ideal that results in great suffering when vigorously pursued.

Upon digging a little deeper I discovered that it was published in the Journal of Medical Ethics in 1992.

Upon further investigation I discovered that it was a satirical proposal to classify happiness as a psychiatric disorder, submitted by Richard P. Bentall of the Liverpool University, meant to underscore the difficulties in defining what a psychiatric disease is.

I was disappointed.

Still, it wouldn't be a bad paragraph to commit to memory. You can use it as a weapon.

When you are in the company of someone who is only pretending to be happy, who leans heavily on those vapid quotes people use to fool themselves into believing they are happy, all evidence to the contrary, you can say "Wait a minute? Did you know the Journal of Medical Ethics says happiness is a psychiatric disorder?"

By way of clarification - I am not against happiness. I dig happy people..................if they are genuinely happy. Happy people exude happiness naturally; they don't need to beat you over the head with it.

It's the desperate people who say things like "A smile is happiness you find right under your nose." Makes you want to vomit, right?

You now have some words you can use to fight back.

Could be especially useful at this time of year.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Fouled Through Weakness

He punished himself as soon as they left.

A precious day had been fouled through weakness. Made awkward and uncomfortable.

He didn't see it coming and wasn't sure how the hell it happened. It seemed to happen instantaneously, in the wink of an eye, but that couldn't be the truth.

Could it?

Immediately after the final wave goodbye he walked back inside to the chosen doorway.

Facing one of the door jambs, he hooked his fingers behind the half inch of wood on the left and the right that provided a good enough grip. Leaned back a little and then suddenly pulled himself forward, creating a violent collision between his forehead and the impassive, immovable door frame.

He was momentarily staggered and leaned back against the opposite jamb, barely able to hold his balance.

It occurred to him that it wasn't enough. He had not paid a big enough price.

Forced himself to stand tall, gripped a half inch of wood on each side once again and positioned himself at a severe angle.

This time, when he launched himself forward he caught the edge of the wood. He dropped to his knees but could only hold it for a few seconds before he fell backwards, banging the back of his head against the opposite door jamb, ending up in an awkward sitting position.

This was the retribution he was looking for.

Blood flowed from his forehead, down his left cheek and onto his chest.

It wasn't embarrassment that drove him to this punishment. It went way deeper than that.

He felt weak and exposed; lately he felt overwhelmed. It was getting harder to hide the truth and he felt that he was destroying whatever respect, and possibly love, previously existed.

Maybe a lifetime of weakness had already done the damage. Maybe this latest incident was just another nail in the coffin. Predictable and not so shocking.

He tried to think it through but could not. Could not make sense of the situation, could not even flirt with a possible solution, or dig deep enough through enough bullshit to get at a root cause.

This made him furious, as the blood ran, as his head pounded, as his dignity died.

Frustrated, he yelled "Fuck it. I am sick of the analysis, sick of the explanations and the apologies. Fuck it. Fuck it all."

He stood up uncertainly and grabbed the edge of the counter as a vicious smile spread slowly over his face.

He raised his right hand and slowly spread the blood all over his face. Painting his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his lips.

He liked the way it felt. The sticky warmth. The juxtaposition of life and death inherent in the blood flow.

He staggered to the recliner and sat down heavily. Patiently waiting for the blood to dry as darkness fell.

He considered wearing the blood as a mask the next time he left the house. To provoke reactions against which he could unleash his fury.

It was a thought. A possible course of action.

For now he was where he needed to be. Feeling his skin tighten as the blood began to dry. As darkness isolated him.

Feeling the pain he deserved to feel.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016


Perspective is an elusive and a slippery son of a bitch.

Over the weekend I was sitting all pampered and warm in my middle class home thinking with great satisfaction that this week would be a good week. An easy week.

Work Tuesday, work Wednesday, Thanksgiving on Thursday, work Friday, have Saturday, Sunday and Monday off.

Today I want to jab ice picks into my eyes.