Tag Archives: relationships

store credit for the soul

Since my first death (we undergo several of these within our lifetimes as they forcefully usher us into maturity), I no longer saw my substitutions as a measure for survival. It seemed as though the act of surviving suggested a leverage over chaos, as if it had been an option. That choice was made for you, be it by a higher being or a peer. We only have as much common sense as we paid for, and it’s a self-service gas pump. It was a measure that disciplined me into prevailing. I wasn’t so much a survivalist as I was a prevailist.I was on the road and wouldn’t get off it lest blown-out tires or piss stops. I had plenty of sense in my tank to keep me on the road for a far as I could. My old man was to thank for the first death when he tried to drown me in the fourth grade; much was learned from his failure.

I won’t bore you with the details surrounding the drowning, so I’ll skip that part. I wasn’t taught something so silly like, “never give up,” with the intention to “fix” me with a fearlessness in life. It was more like the drowning had asphyxiated me with a fearlessness of death. That’s something one learns to come to terms with when one nears eighty years of age. Not a deluging baptism by your father with a can of cardinal red in his hand bequeathed to him by the king of beers at the age of eight. I wasn’t taught to fight the injustices that befall me, nor did I believe flapping and flailing would help -fighting, flapping, flailing most likely end in failure for everyone anyway, given they have the sensibility to fight only in fights where victory is feasible. I’ve outsmarted a few bullies in my reign on the playground and blackmailed a few employers… been doing that since I was eight. Another thing I learned from the deluge was how to embrace death with open arms. Death doesn’t play favorites, and even he gets ennui. I didn’t have any older role models or older wiser relatives to teach me otherwise. I saved myself from drowning and walked out of that stupid swimming pool myself. I never liked pool parties after that.

There was one relative I did have that was technically disqualified because she wasn’t related by blood. That’s not to say a relative must be related by blood. Incidentally, she was just the only one that came close to fitting in the bill. It was my grandmother, of whom I referred to as Gramma. She was the woman that raised my father, and she wasn’t genetically related to him either. She was related by chaos.

Gramma had been hospitalized from a simultaneous stroke and aneurysm the led to a full right-side paralysis of her body. Her memory was permanently impaired as her short-term memory bank had been completely robbed. The precious moments of her life were insured up to a year after the adoption of my father which meant all the transaction records of my brother’s, mother’s and my deposits into Gramma’s memory bank had been discarded. She had trouble retaining new memories. Lost them within days. My own memories said nothing else aside from Gramma having been a strong dedicated woman whom loved us very much.

She walked us (me, and my baby brother, Morris) to and from school, bought us pizza with what little money she had most every night -I had many memories of her and shared them with no one. Not once. I was suspected to have been too young to remember. Keeping them to myself wasn’t a choice. I’d wondered many times, in fact, whether divulging this information would resuscitate the Smolensk family. Then attempted it during one of our ever-silent dinners when I was 10. I was 10 years old the last time my family ate at the dinner table together. We remained hopelessly content with having to introduce ourselves to half of Gramma upon each visit. There existed cruel, eventful bags of poo that were never to be fully cleaned up the moment they’re ignited on our porches. These bad-mannered poos were forever wedged into the trenches of our soles to walk with us until our last step. The meaning of family stuck beneath the shoes of the Smolensk’s.

Gramma found my father on the streets in Czechoslovakia in his 13th year and forced to disavow her wealthy and insensate husband and snobbish children. She was 48 when offered a choice between her family or the second option, which she had chosen. She moved to Davenport, Iowa, as an old woman with a penniless name to raise my teenage father. The mysterious motives that empowered her justification to make such a manic decision will eternally elude my understanding. My father subserviently maintained bimonthly visits to her hospice since the doublefucked-up accident. During my visits, of which were numbered few, Gramma’s inability to recognize me remained adamant. This also led to her conviction of my having been a beautiful and healthy young lady, which was discovered when she verbally complimented me, and would remain her belief until I spoke. On several occasions this happened. Sometimes I neglected to speak at all and never accused of being rude for doing because upon hearing my voice, she became both appalled and ecstatic. She believed she had heard my father’s voice coming out of a young woman.

That comparison wasn’t the reason my visitations had ceased, despite my wishes for it. It’d have been easier. Nor was it the deleted files she no longer had of me. And it certainly wasn’t her calling me a beautiful young woman because I’d already been learned in tolerance of misogyny since grade school. It was her having no memory beyond my father’s 14th year, and was never able to recognize the man next to her bed as my father, despite the frequency of his visits.

He told her about his life, his girlfriend and their kids (mum and dad never married), her grandchildren, -the same story upon each bimonthly visit, sometimes more, as far as the story could go, for 14 years. I couldn’t watch that. As unfavorable as he was, I could see then, that his love I hardly saw transpired into this halved woman that raised him. I stopped going because I didn’t want to give him amnesty. Not for half a person. But I had a keen sense of empathy I picked up along the way. More so when I spent 2 years and 11 months dying. He’d been dying for 14 years. This kind of demise makes you take your soul back from the Lord and give him store credit. That kind of feverish demise that gives you the kind of pain that tempers the mightiest mettle.

A slow churning burn, perpetuating a kind of compressed incineration. The kind only intended to leave a forest charred of chlorophyl, so blackened, even the light must humanely avert their gaze as was left to the mercy of the taunting kiss of the wind. It singed inside your heart, the walls constantly lacerated then cauterized, and the love you have for this person was the taunting fuel supply. You let it burn you because you’re afraid this person would be extinguished, despite your knowing that to be illogical, but you’ve forgotten how to feel everything else besides the pain that was here, now, hoping, foolishly hoping you could be the one exception in time. A love that burns, and does nothing else. Day and night and day and night and day and night and repeat until you see a change. Until something changes. Or wait. For 3 years, knowing nothing could change, for as long as the burning continues to burn …until it doesn’t. You can stand no more, you listen no more to the crackling embers of your mettle and hear your thoughts coughing. “A love that continues to burn me down with despair, or the home of those that warm me up with hope?” You ask yourself. Because you realize there’s no one else there that could ask you, there’s no one else in that fire. You must ask yourself to demystify the motives to make your choice. My father chose to stay engulfed in despair for 14 years. He chose to see his mother than to see anyone else.

I could never distinguish whether that decision was indicative of his strength or stupidity, but a decision that damaged more people than necessary could only be selfish. A blind devotion to something that keeps people apart was a devotion that kept everyone apart. My devotion to substitutions like Autumn and whatever else, taught me be a part of everyone. I may not have had any dependable living relatives, but my Gramma didn’t need to have those memories she lost of me anymore as I would forever remember them for her, embodied within the annual visit of Autumn. I knew very early on that any chances of my growing up as a regular boy had been drowned when I was eight.

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Cats, Dogs, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers

[Author’s note: the parts crossed out, were part of a dictated conversation from 2 separate authors notes. It also got really filthy and crude, so skip ahead to the uncrossed, boring parts.]

The bare minimum only sustains and postpones any progress in your life. That came to me in a daydream while I was on a mystical journey inside a Vons/Pavillions. (I was following someone.) Have you ever seen the movie, Once? It was a good movie but I couldn’t stop staring at the ginger lead character. It just struck me as strange for no reason. Then I thought about Cosmo Brown from Singing in the Rain. His character had pizzazz and charm and a great attitude, and was hilarious, but he was a ginger. He’d never be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon. Of course, I wouldn’t be allowed to bang Kathy Seldon either. (For those of you who don’t know, I’m not a bigot, I indiscriminately hate all races.)

Sometimes, I shock myself with 9volt batteries. Sometimes I shock myself when someone points out my race after I’d forgotten. I’m not even sure what-the-fuck race I actually am, and never could grasp how seriously some take it. I mean, I realize there are obstacles I’ve to jump over every now and then, but I’ve always had to do that. I’ll still never get to bang Kathy Seldon.

[Tell me one good reason why it’s important to classify by race and I’ll tell you it’s another reason why the human race is still a joke. Your footprints shall cease and your existence will be forgotten by the tick of time.] That’s probably what the Earth would say, and say it with a smoker’s cough.

I’m not like that. I’m nicer and more passive because I probably can’t kick you ass in a bar-fight. Not like Blue Mama Earth can with her Hurricane swag and believe me, that ain’t her only trick. IF you do manage to kick her ass, I’ll have been waiting with an empty beer bottle to less-confrontational-ly throw at the back of your head. So you wouldn’t see it coming or possibly wrestle it out of my hand. While you’re curtains are closed and the intermission music montage is playing, I’ll rudely talk shit about how you beat up a woman and how I defended her honor and win everyone on my side, and simultaneously distracting the patrons by bringing your limp body onto a stool next to me and buying you a beer. Hopefully no one will realize my cheapshotdickmove of throwing a bottle at the back of your head to end your tyranny. I’ll probably end up drinking your beer in the next ten minutes after the cloud of pointless aggression settles, and leave with the second prettiest girl you came with because I’m a simple man. She’ll probably have empathized with my performance of being a hero who fought smart, as opposed to have fought dirty. I will have become drunk enough to forgive her for being your friend, and fuck her mercilessly into a puddle of jelly or pudding of some kind for a hard 4 minutes.

(Again, I’m a simple man, aim too high and it might miss the sky. Where others feel inclined to impress, I say it ain’t the real me. If I’m not good enough, I’m okay with you cutting me from your cast and crew right then and there, before we take the two-month downward love spiral because I can’t keep up with all my lies and gradually revert back to my copacetic self because you have failed to inspire any changes in my life to better fit into a snug studio loft within your heart.)

4 minutes is the bar price she’ll pay for me to pound her little pink cigarette case with the fury of Apollo until it flattens into a black and blue Goodbye Kitty credit card, and baby, you best believe my tongue is going in that naughty little water park of hers and it’s thirstier than Dracula with a conscience. I’ll probably dig my shovel in her backyard too and try to say the exploding passion or whatever made me do it. Hopefully, this pink taco massacre takes place at her place so I’d be able to go through her things to find a memento. I’ll even learn a few things about her besides her name because I probably nodded to whatever sentences I found no substance in that came out of her mouth like music coming out of a shitty speaker in an elevator.

At her place, I’ll be able to slink out quietly in the middle of the night and walk home through the rained-on empty streets reflecting the city lights with a bluish hue from the pearl white full moon in the cloudless black sky.

If she’s owner to those butt dimples just above the waistline of those shamefully tight cock-ready jeans, I’ll ride her like a military dad. I’ll ride her anyway, because it’s a fucking free ticket to fuck like fucking lions, fucking Nala like a naughty slut, primal, raw, and claws baby! The poor bastard that rustles in the bushes that disrupts our fuck-ageddon, is going to get clawed into pieces! (Lionesses actually does the hunting, and the male just waits because he’s the man and still ready to bone down or eat glorious meats. If a safari jeep showed up, I think I’d be able to fuck it up, depending on it’s tranquilizer dart supply, my tolerance from to opiates as a fucking lion, and whether the guide is on his first week which the other guides should have warned about interrupting my bang time.)

I’ll probably have beer munchies and when the opportunity arises, I’ll fuck her and eat simultaneously until I’ve banged every organ out of her body. She better be good at screaming bloody murder in savage ecstasy, or good at faking it because I love a good performance. It tells my cock her cunt is hospitable and my cock’ll think, “it’s nice in here, I hope my master lets me blow a fat fucking load of spicy happy-sauce somewhere in, on, or around this place. Hile, Black Angus, Hile!”

4 minutes because it’s ultimately what one asks for when asking in a bar. Personally, I’ve never picked up women in a bar. [That I can recall.] The process itself dissuades me and the prize, the 4 minutes doesn’t present any reward worth a flying fuck of mine. I’m not a guy that high-fives my homies because I got a drunk little cock-gobbler to release my snake into her garden. There’s no thrill of the catch for me either because persuading a drunk chick to leave with an asshole is not a very difficult thing to do in L.A. It’s like kicking a kitten. All one has to do is omit the idea that this woman has ideas and opinions and feelings that are worth a damn on occasion, and make sure you seem decisive and in control of most aspects of your life while you flirt. Seem is the keyword, fellas, and you’ll be fucking her fooled meaningless flesh in no time. Oh, and make sure she’s had a few so she can omit the women’s lib thing and men are bastards mantra they sing at their tea parties, and mistake your cockiness for charm. Then high-five your ego, toast your glass of self-glory, and give yourself a wall-street applause because you’ve lowered the points on humanity’s stock.

Now, you say, “It’s survival,” and I’ll say, “I’ll toast to that! What kind of world are you surviving for again? Man, I was just in the bathroom, and this drunk dude was pissing in the urinal, got it a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure he fell in dick first at one point. He didn’t even wash his hands, and now he’s gonna go bang that random chick he left with. I’m sorry, what were you saying? Right, survival…”

Bitches, don’t think you’re innocent too. (I don’t mean bitches in derogatory way, I’m punching fellow cocks brutally, and I didn’t want you feeling left out without a cute pet-name.) Every time you let a cock take your castle, the cocks gather and cock-a-doodle-doo his glory, encouraging and inspiring other cocks to do the same. And they can, baby. My loves, my ladies, no matter how many times you’ve watched the episodes of Sex in the City (as I have, no joke) or ran from these raging cock-wielding assholes, an asshole will always find you. It’ll be your fault, because men don’t think, right? They react like dogs that hunt in packs and want your tasty treats. They follow suit of an alpha dog, and when he’s banging a bitch, the others will be banging soon too. Men follow the alpha in their packs, but these leaders have been in a moral decline. These men can’t find a woman’s love precious, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.

Listen up boys. You stupid cocksuckers!

(I wanted to leave it at that cause it sounded cool and might win some women back.) Deep down, I do care about where our illegitimate children are raised. There are very few good guys left, the ones that mean it when they say, “how you doin’?” and they’ve become harder for the good bitches to find. It’s just as hard for these good pricks to find good bitches. We all know the drill when one of the boys is down for the count because a girl put him there, pick up a 24-pack of she’s a bitch and you can do better, and hit the town. If he’s really down in the dumps, the fifth of “you aren’t gonna remember shit in the morning because I love you man, Band of Brothers, no man left behind!”

All the while, she’s communing with her friends that thought there was something off about your boy. They don’t know exactly what, but will give an answer vaguely close and neutral ensuring her that they know what the fuck is going on. Most of the time, their “omelette of knowledge” is foundation’d around something they’ve heard all their lives from hearsay, probably from someone older. They feel it necessary to take control with a “mama knows best,” approach, and to the trained eye, only goes to show what little progress they’ve achieved in life. They just don’t know what a good guy looks like, so good guys look a little off or unbelievable. It’s not threatening to us pricks, but their defense mechanisms. The fangs only come out when you do something wrong. Bitches are like cats. They will do what they want, and there’s nothing you can do. You push, and it will hurt.

Cats, dogs, pricks, bitches, Sex in the City, and a Band of Brothers. Gentlemen, you’re in a pack with the wrong kind of leader. The wrong kind of leadership leads nowhere. Remember when Joey from Friends got his own show? Neither do I. Ladies, you don’t give the puppy a treat when he pisses on your rug, but sometimes a girlfriend of yours does because he’s the cutest puppy ever! Your rug is still pissed on but the only thing the puppy knows is that he got a treat even after juicing your rug. I’ve got to start closing my blinds now and locking my doors. What next?

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Look Both Ways

How heavenly it is to allow love to take over reason. To entrust instinct over logic. Favoring free flying frilly feelings from fastened floundered phrenicism. Believing what had once tenanted our hearts to be truth all along. Love is truth, and reason could never contend in that ring.

…But I was raised to believe reason ran the world. Since this is true, then love would destroy the world. In minute increments. The tragic irony of it truly makes it beautiful, and I can’t help but commend His sense of humor.

You want love? Want to make love? Want to imitate it instead? Everyone needs a fuck buddy. Everyone is a fucked buddy.

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bank robber stole one dollar to recieve top notch health care in prison.

The silence in in submission we endure in actuality favors the compliance of the need to become insufferable. Where words are spoken of an offensive nature, we tend to believe they were written with ourselves in the cross-hairs of their mind. The choice of words only become hurtful when we partially believe in the truth behind them. Then, there are those that promote butterfly and lollipop phrases, speaking to promote the art of feeling naked in your own clothes.

If offended, were you just too religious or simply waiting for the next asshole (of your dubbing) to come along to fuel your consideration of drain cleaner ingestion, maybe just a shot. Some people seek out people capable of supplying them with more trouble, if not to excite their own worn, dull lives. They constantly search for these theatrics, ergo constantly complain about them. Have you ever wondered why it was hard for you to turn away when a friend was venting about something? Now perhaps her/his choice of words sounded familiar, exhausting, and lack the element of surprise?

Those that offend, never intentionally try to offend. It does not count when committed  in cowardice; behind your back. They are not portraying insensitivity. They are flabbergasted by the symptoms you’ve conveyed of having been waiting for someone to say it aloud, before your heightened emotive (and sometimes annoying) responses. Like the guest that didn’t want to be at the party, and said nothing to invoke their opposite ideals, and ultimately happiness. They are factually incapable of even accepting contentment.

Men suffer this just as easily, although men do not cry themselves to sleep at night. They cry on the john, or head, consciously certain the ventilation fan is on, so as to suppress the weepings. I call this practicality, and highly suggest this method.

Men of logic do not cry, though, they are not discouraged by the injustice of dealing with women either, despite it’s dependable consistency in an unfavored outcome. They pedal on through  the strength and belief in God, finding these situations as confusing as He. Aghast, at the foolishness of humanity, and feeling embarrassed because of His creation of us in His image. If the Apocalypse were to occur, it surely would be a direct translation of God saying, “aaalright, what the fuck? Really?” Everyone has their limits. It matters little whether you received a gold medal in the Olympics, convinced someone disc jockeying is a an art, or created humanity in about a week.

Every sports game I’ve witnessed, I’ve heard this phrase shouted; “DEFENSE!”

The repetition of the phrase means we’ve taken that philosophy into the real world, regardless of the venue, and are now, habitually, prone to defensive positions. Opting to score in the dark, as opposed to scoring in front of the Referee. (suckerpunches, behind-the-back-anythings, backstabbings, whitened lies, or truths, I know you can fill this in, etc.)

All the while, the honest, tried, and true; suffer in place of humanity. Someone always has to suffer, but the impertinence of others amongst humanity, have halted their benevolence as a whole, and only their benevolence allows them to accept their demise, and impending extinction. Nice guys (girls) finish last, however, now they might not ever be able to finish.

Speak for those who can’t, for the love of what’s left of humanity, even if the words are not your own. A fair fight is ever only a fair fight on fair terms.

If applicable, cease and desist your cuntiness. (rated R)

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sometimes the simplest answer…

image

I don’t hate her. Why does everyone come to the conclusion that I do? When you want to find the truth about how two chemical ions react, you don’t ask them. You put them in isolated beakers and apply heat. Of course I don’t hate her, in fact I love her very much. I did until I found it easier just not to care. She obviously didn’t, despite my nursing her in her time of need, and getting her to put the bottle down to live her own version of her life. Misled me to questioning which values are important.

Never expected her to be there when I got that promotion at work, no disappointments. Never expected her to be there after the first surgery, no disappointments. Never expected her to be there when I got home from work, no disappointments. Never expected her to be at dad’s funeral, no disappointments.

What’d you think, that we would share a glass of wine, a slice of cake, then a heartfelt hug after? I’ve given her enough hugs. She’s given me enough disappointments.

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