It’s Hard To Fake It When You Can See The Hallucinations Of Others Who Have Far Too Much Money And

I like when it accounts who aren't bots like my posts. It re-assures me there is life out there.

Okay.

I’ve dabbled in Buddhism. The Buddha talked about subduing your own mind. You need to subdue it because it’s powerful. I guess maybe you can let it play a little but sometimes you’ve got to subdue it and make it do something. 

What I’ve just described would be seen as problematic as fuck by actual Buddhists. Can you imagine how insufferable a Buddhist fundamentalist would probably be? Imagine a self-styled western Buddhist fundamentalist. God. Think about how annoying Calvinists are. When I was in my late 20s, I saw a fair amount of the people I came up with go all Neo-Calvinist. They start wearing black. They grew beards. They listened to this funeral folk music shit that I felt guilty for not liking cuz maybe that meant I was going to Hell. It was all such a drag. It was really fatalistic and mournful and had this twisted conception of God as this holy serial killer who gonna fuck some people up with tornadoes and STIs. 

Part of me still fears going to Hell. 

Part of me wonders if they’re right. 

If they were right, that would be one hell of a plot twist, right? 

Imagine you go through a year of Hell. Imagine losing everything you love. Imagine losing your mind. You stumble upon the truth and it’s the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints or it’s The Church of Scientology. Sometimes I imagine what it’s like to actually believe the truth is in one of those places and to fear that you’re turning away from it if you forsake it. Forget the Job shit. Maybe it’s not that dramatic. Imagine that hole inside you is filled up by what you get in those places. It’s hard for me to conceive but I think about it. 

I’ll tell you what though. I don’t really want to fake it till I make it just because I’m deathly afraid of Hell. No. That does not seem like a very good idea at this juncture. 

Know what's cringe?

Dating sites and dating profiles.

I sit down here and I try this. Type my thoughts. Try to dress ‘em up like Fonzie or a monk who just got it. Thing is, usually I’m going nowhere. I’m not Fonzie. I’m not a monk. I’m not the hero. The world is full of people who think they need to be the big-dicked hero. 

We. We>me. 

I say that as I tickle these here keys all alone. Are we all these people having heroic fantasies all alone? We’re all Luke Skywalker staring at the horizon. Maybe it’s time to cut that shit out. Maybe we need to cut it out because it’s dangerous. 

I remember. Nah, I half-remember. Shit, maybe this never happened. I remember a Saturday Night Live Christmas parody. It was a parody of those holiday specials with the clay people. I dunno. Do you know what I’m talking about? Aight. There was a line that stuck with me. I don’t remember the context. I just remember the line, “It’s not about you, you douchebag.” 

IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU, YOU DOUCHEBAG. 

Maybe I’m way off here but that’s the heart of pure, undefiled religion right there. Of course, what happens with religion is people get transfixed by the messianic figures. That’s all they see. They try to see themselves in the messiahs. 

Went somewhere. Somewhere. Got lost there though. Might not be able to go any farther. 

That sudden peace and drive safe was me be being lazy as fuck. 

God damn it.

Aight. So, I’m gonna blow away the dust. Blow the dust off my soul. Gonna awaken from my comatose state. 

That’s what life is, kids. 

It’s a series of awakenings. 

It’s staring at cave drawings. 

The f-f-flicker of fire’s light against the cold stone. 

The stick figures the aliens left us to tell us who are god(s) were. 

The warmth of the burning bush

feels like the home you can never remember 

The voice that comes from it sounds like

FRED MCFEELY ROGERS 

it tells you it’s a lie

and that you shouldn’t be afraid 

and that you’ll go home some day 

but until then 

you carry the medicine.

On a summer night in mid-July

the asphalt cools from the day’s baking 

and a man recovers from a day that ends in y. 

Legs crossed on the floor like when he was a kid

Window is ajar and the breeze is sweet mercy. 

Mercy hard to come by 

even in mid-July 

if you live long enough. 

Day started all chill and then all of a sudden everything was on fire. Had excitable bougie folk to the left and to the right of me. I’ll spare you the details. It’s really not important. 

I could pat myself on the back for surviving all that. I could say I’m tougher for having gone through it. Fuck that noise. I’m not. 

I’m just glad that it’s over for the moment. 

Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I’m just thankful for the day off of work. I don’t plan on celebrating. Fuck nationalism. The only thing I’ll really be celebrating is waking up and being aware of the fact that I’m not punching a clock. I’ve spent a lot of national holidays sitting at a desk in some ugly-ass, depressing office somewhere with a headset on waiting for phone calls. There is a tone in my ear and there is someone terribly surprised that someone is actually working. Some would even comment about how terrible it was that I was working on the 4th of July. 

God damn it. I spent way too long answering phones. I will forever be bitter about that. I’m never getting over that. 

My brain is fried. 

I’m tryin’ to try

but if I die

I’m like, “Okay. Yeah.”

Sunday afternoons are a bad trip

without a sitter

without a map

without old men with kind eyes

who tell you exactly where the fuck you are

and how to get back home.

Dark Rooms

Dark rooms is where you find the truth. You can solo this shit only so long before you just go fuckin' mad, my brothers and sisters. Listen to me I want you to take the hand of the person next to you in the dark. Squeeze their hand so they know it's okay. Yeah. It's okay. It's all broken and crazy and dumb and boring It's a dollar short for insulin on GoFundMe It's a shiny panopticon for you and me where they see everything It's hucksters It's pimps It's no more sick days left when you're about to fucking lose it. Yo. The pitch is this. Office Space meets Taxi Driver. It's that pregnancy test when the math don't add up. We're a room full of people saying, "But Doc, I am Pagliacci" and God damn it, we're all gonna save each other