Tag Archives: crazy

it’s not you, it’s me

I force-fed my charm and intensified my eccentricities into insanities when a woman made me panic. Any person that’s seen the lavatories of hell become immune to most aspects of fear and panic upon their parole back to the world. I’ve seen it. Used it. However, there are creatures in this world infused with estrogen with demonic affinities of hormonal imbalance. Women. Then there were the ones of which that made me panic, a small, elite legion of the select few armed with a disarming charm that easily cast a debilitating spell of foolishness over me. They scared me. How much I trembled in fear normally identified the ones I really liked. The fear would make me do certain things, then when I recount the things I had done I would start it off with, ‘Fuck! Why did I…’ as I addressed each thing I had done. When this was finished, I then proceeded to self-punish. They induced a kind of delirium on me. Being able to recount my idiocies usually meant the delirium had subsided. This was dangerous because decisions like force-feeding charms and being exciting by being batshit crazy, were presented with only -the cons were detoured but arrived just in time for the damage assessment. I saw an average of 5 to 7 more cons per idea than there were pros, when I came to. I didn’t feel too disappointed by the statistics. Being able to determine an average at all, already had me feeling that way.

I had a belief that women I liked needed to be gagged with my charm and out-crazied the methed-out religious hobo ont the corner, that one that believes wiping correctly with toilet paper and flushing are friend requests to Beelzebub. Not doing them made me think I wouldn’t stand out of the crowd. I’d look like all the other dudes waiting in her line. They always seemed to be less afraid than I was, fearless even. She’d figure out I wasn’t supposed to be in the line in the first place if I didn’t try anything and ask me to leave because my nervous, stuttering and jittery balls were a disqualification. This terrified me so I’d often rehearse funny jokes to gag her with my spells, sometimes simultaneously sending Satan friend requests. (Hell’s firewall probably spammed my shit because I can’t view his status updates… I had the incorrect address in my wiping, perhaps.)

Consequently, the panic that made me manic, indeed had made me stand out of the crowd of brave[r] men. It always did and was successful in that venture. I was already manic to begin with and would have been fine as my common sense told me what color the traffic light was. My fear of rejection and losing that rare feeling of euphoria set off by specific women gave me an allergic reaction; causing the delirium that took away all the yellow lights. Slowing down was no longer an option. Speed up or stop. There was no way I couldn’t stand out of the crowd. I may as well have worn a purple top hat as I waited in line; sing songs, tell jokes and send Old Nick another friend request while I was at it.

Sometimes, women would politely tell me I’m not the right guy for her. Sometimes, they’d tell me she had actually wanted to be just friends. Sometimes, they’d ask me to stop calling their work asking to speak with them. Sometimes, they confessed they weren’t really ready to commit. Sometimes, seeing them hold hands with another guy told me they would have committed and I would’ve been that guy if I had simply waited 11 more days from the day I met them. Sometimes, security was called because I often needed them to clarify things. Sometimes, I’d be prohibited to being within a certain proximity of certain public premises. Sometimes, I needed to clarify and double-check their wanting no further involvement with me. Sometimes, demanding to speak to my girlfriend in order to get the clarification confused her co-workers into sending for the guards whom I’d started greeting by name. Sometimes, the women asked how I’d found out where she lived. Sometimes, a debate over interpretation in regards to that last one of whether it was in surprise or in fear that the women exclaimed as they turned on the bedroom lights. Sometimes, it seemed silly and unfair that they even would react in fear. Every time, not one person came to my defense despite having been reacting in fear the whole time, since the start.


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pen & the camera

The day begins with the birdsong of an alarm clock. You never recognize the tune immediately, and yet you can never realize it’s significance, if any. The sun shines, and the moon docks, from day to day, this happens. Assimilate into a prose or a pose that promotes the product. It’s always the product. My body in this place; my mind in it’s glory.

I write, and I can never stop writing, I may go a tad bit crazy here and there, but there aren’t many choices of complacency for people like me. I don’t have good looks and media-model measurements I can aspire to inspire. So I’ll stick with the cards my wits have up their sleeves. FICTION is a fancier version of NON-FICTION, and the honest truth is; non-fiction is plain, boring, and depressing. (Can we do anything about that? ha!)

Narcissistic-ally, I’ve begun writing a non-fiction novel of allegory and rhetoric in the tense of fiction, and no one would claim my story false because my story is in fact, true. (Well, nine-tenths of it is.) Under a pseudonym. A call to arms from one who has/had understood the septic end of human relations surmised by our youth. All in all, detrimental moments have led this pseudonym to where it may, and as I speak. Bullshit is one thing, but if bullshit is served with a side of philosophy, there is and will always be something to dribble.

You can write meaningless shit about terminal illnesses, or the way the head cheerleader preferred to slurp penis over slurpees to be in. You can write poetry after googling your research and explain where the hell the L train is going. Fiction is just a more exciting take on real life. It creates a story and enthusiasm for the weak, and pushes the meek outside into the sun. Diagnosing cancer and treating it in time, picking out the best cheap wine for the picnic of a lifetime, success stories from an eating disorder, alcoholism, pedophilia. Doesn’t matter. If you don’t take things lightly, then you’re taking them seriously, things matter. When every little thing matters down to the T, you’ll be an unhappy old bitch/bastard before you’ll know it.

Bullshit was never bullshit to me, it was a healthier justification in/to the accordance of life as opposed to the bland, truth seeking mentality as a journalist. A writer of fiction will always see more truth than a journalist. The difference in fictional writers and journalists is their philosophy and trivium. A journalist will never be allowed to refute this either. A journalist works on truth and facts, not opinions. Especially not their own. Can an Atheist be angry with God?

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Filed under allegory, fiction metaphor, non-fiction metaphor, non-fiction rambling, rhetoric, stories