Tag Archives: mentality

and we don’t care about the young folks, talkin’ ’bout the young style

One day I wanted Coco Puffs, the next, Apple Jacks. I was eight or nine, and this was a prelude into my future as an indecisive assface. At that age, an identity crisis happened as often as I saw my dentist and what kid would know how big of an impact either of those would be? Puffs or Jacks, I was lactose intolerant anyway, but c’est la vie.

The best way to cope and make sense of it now was to take the guise of the jester. Lighten the load of the heavy stuff. Showing you were conscious of the matter at hand, even mocking it, shows you know something. That something you know, regardless, allowed you to look like you felt less shittier than everyone else. I knew what that something was, I always did, never told a soul, cause I’d look less cool if I let you have my cigarette.

Maybe I didn’t know how to tell it. I didn’t know all the words in the language to convey it or shit, would you take a vague analogy instead? I’m better at those, but they’d seem like a joke in itself, got room for comic relief while you’re in a pit of despair? Of course you do. It’s one of the most important roles in the movie, and you’re not going to audition. Everyone was Don Lockwood, but not me, I was everyone’s Cosmo Brown. I was good at it.

I’d never feel comfortable as Don Lockwood, and I couldn’t be both. Cosmo Brown would never be allowed to sing in the rain because of Kathy Seldon. The things that make us happy; you can have that and it’s fleeting nature. (Sometimes, I think Cosmo should have gotten Kathy, but can you imagine how history would’ve turned out if the ginger won the girl?! Once was a good movie, but I couldn’t exactly believe it’s not butter. Worse, what if Cosmo was an oriental, Jackie Chan bloopers during Make Em’ Laugh.)

Fuck, I’m going off on a tangent now. Are we agreed the multiple identity crisis I braved in my youth has affected me? Good back to the weird Singing in the Rain analogy.

I’ll goad my syllabus further in defense of my bigotry in stating I hate all races equally,  indiscriminately. Happy face. I’m even surprised sometimes when someone reminds me (they remind me) of what my race is supposed to be. Identity crisis can start here.

Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify one by their race, and I’ll tell you why the human race is my favorite joke. Smoking cigarettes and smoking barrels, mama Earth’s got a smoker’s cough; going green and choosing the diet of a bunny ain’t gon’ cure her cancer. We are the cancer. Sad face.

I think Dracula would make a great candidate as Surgeon General. Remake the Karate Kid and Singing in the Rain with Jackie Chan. And Daniel Day-Lewis would bring back the spirit of the World Wrestling Federation, make the people believe again. Alright, I’ll go to bed.

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Filed under allegory, non-fiction rambling, rhetoric

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