The Bleed

The Left Side of My Head Talks to the Right Side.

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Wallowing in self-loathing is pointless. It’s an excuse to claim that you hate yourself. All it means when someone makes it a point to elaborate on how worthless they are is that they can’t handle the responsibility of being human. Shit sucks, man, that’s the world we live in. There is a jewel in the lotus though.
The sprawling, egregious grotesqueness of the world is just the background. It’s an easy background to concentrate on but it isn’t the end. The Ocean is a terrible place full of giant tentacle-monsters but it’s also one half of the source of life. We have the same gig up here on land. How fucking monstrous the world is highlights the subtle beauty in our every day lives. God might be dead but his love surrounds us. Who gives a fuck if He isn’t real, You’re not real either.
Smashing your calcium-encased, wet pile of intelligent mush against the cosmic is satisfying when you’re crying and feeling alone but it’s not for all the time. It makes no sense to live in a world behind the world you exist in. Sure, everything is actually sub-atomic particles and therefore only your perception constructs the reality in which you live. That’s somewhat depressing because everything you’ve ever loved is nothing…but so is what you’ve hated. If your mind is so powerful and the world depends on what you think of it, why is it so hard to change?
Probably because once you get there, the question becomes: What am I? Well, chief, you’re the same shit as everyone else. What makes you a special individual is what you want to perceive in you that separates you. Yeah, it’s that arbitrary. Shit blows because you want it to not because it does.
People who complain about other people complaining and use photos of dying Africans to illustrate their point are simply in service to their own false importance. They aren’t complaining about how hard their life is, but neither are the Africans. The Africans just live, they probably aren’t super stoked about it but neither are you. They don’t have America to compare their life to, they don’t care. Just like you don’t care about them aside from being fodder for your petty debates. The people exploiting starving children in other countries to make themselves feel important and moral are acting like a psychological Hitler. They aren’t helping anybody. The message in the action is “Appreciate what you have.” Okay. Do we need to drag someone else into this to make life a materialistic competition with some philosophical implications? No, fuck you, shut up.
Was there a decision long ago to never say what we mean? Our tongues are confounded and murderous. Yet words are just noises. Perception is a bitch, huh?

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Dog

He took the cap off of the medicine and rearranged the items on his desk. The sky was falling away into a colored puddle as menacing clouds floated harmlessly up from the horizon and the sun threw light on his front door. He timidly stepped outside and burned in the sunset that soaked his world in the beautiful melancholy only felt by old dogs during dusk in New Mexico. Dog. That seemed to fit.

Tonight was his night. He would crawl into his own abyss to shake off the fleas and vermin from his past life. His reinvention would be pure. It would involve no reminiscing of the filth he walked in prior to this night with the hungry pink sky. He would take his medicine, shut off the lights, and wait for the horror to consume him. He would beg the demons to rend him in two, to skin him, to pluck from his entrails and to feast on the dead heart inside of his chest. He took the cap off of his medicine. But before he drank, he thumbed the label once to meet his maker, in a sense. Rum.

“Rum, rum, as fast as you can, can’t be sober and still a good man.” -The cries of his friends in youthful rebellion as they drank between classes during school. Now it all seems unfamiliar and detestable. Dog has always shared a room with the Devil. If the Devil wasn’t making one of Dog’s friends embody the grotesqueness of life then the Devil was focusing his energies more locally. He paid rent to live with the Devil and the Devil got to have his brain.

The Devil demanded a great flood be cast upon Dog. And that nothing would come into this new ark Dog was to sail through his life upon. His new ark would sail serene oceans and coast on gentle breezes – after the storm came. Dog knew he needed the storm. He took the cap off his medicine and he let the heart of agony bleed into his lips. The only trinket from his past he would bring was an epithet.

Dog. That seemed to fit.

Just Some Questions

We are being continuously bombarded with several points of view every day of our lives. We are even taught how to cope with these varying descriptions of the behavior of existence and ourselves. In fact, we are taught too many coping mechanisms for this problem. We are almost as overwhelmed by coping mechanisms as we are discrepancies. 

When faced with a conflict, we have been taught to turn the other cheek by nearly every prophetic figure yet we are at the same time, taught to not take any guff and stick up for ourselves. Well, what the hell is that?  Roughly translated, that means the alleged being who decides what happens to us when we die says to let transgressions go but our society teaches us to fight for what we believe in, no matter how small. The most foul part, is that the society teaching us to fight for our beliefs reveres the teacher of turning the other cheek. With this appalling hypocrisy so close to a mental epicenter of our lives, how can we properly navigate the rest of the world? When we have conflicts within about very fundamental aspects of our lives, how can we make any progress that isn’t similarly confused?  

The Bandy

I took a walk one afternoon. It was a fairly average stroll through a park until wonder and mystery came to me like the realization that it is, in fact, Friday and not Thursday. That is to say, I was like: “Bitchin.'” Wonder and mystery came to me in the form of a wonderful pine grove full of mysterious forest critters. As I entered their home, the protector, a most hardened Squirrel decorated by ceremonial nuts and leaves from its many deadly campaigns, challenged my trustworthiness with a bandy.

“Ooop, hello Squirrel.”

“Yo.”

I eyed the squirrel suspiciously. I had always assumed the rodents knew the human tongues but guarded their knowledge of our ways.

“What can I do for you Squirrel?”

“YOUR POLITE DEMEANOR WILL BE YOUR DOWNFALL! Now you are obligated to my wishes, for you have offered yourself unto me, Human.”

“I suppose I have. What is it then?”

“Oh happy day, I have a human in my favor and a world to conquer. My will be done.”

“How do you know about the Bible?”

“Hush, naked monkey.”

“Extrapolate your desire, poofy-tailed mouse.”

“POOFY-TAILED MOUSE?! You insolent, bipedal freak. I’ll kill you.”

“Whatever, bucktoothed Chip N’ Dale reject.”

“MY TALENT WAS A MILLION TIMES GREATER THAN THOSE IMBECILES! My wish is for you to kill yourself, now, Human.”

“Oh, well in that case, no.”

“But…you are obligated to me. You did this yourself…”

“We also claim to love all living beings while we ride in big yellow machines that tear the creature’s homes apart so we can have a party around the burning corpse of them while we poison ourselves for the sake of a decent evening. That’s just a few hours. One does not get to the top of the food chain by telling the truth, Squirrel.”

“One day, you and your…people…. will be crushed beneath my buckteeth, Human. One day.”

The Right Angle

FIRST   

 They made the Suicide Stick a year or two ago when they legalized the drugs. The money to fight the tide of use and abuse all went to waste so they flipped it over and just made it legal. It wasn’t a difficult fight for legalization; most of the politicians were in bed with the dealers anyhow. It’s just good business. 

   The first day the product hit all of the shops turned the city upside down, although it was more colorful. Legislation has been trying to catch up with the mechanical amphetamine horse that congress released from the stable that we all assumed would never be opened. The infrastructure of the city even fell to the torrid storm of psychotropic madness. Cops were trying to make vandalism arrests while having their construct of meaning torn asunder by MDMA hallucinations, dealers were doing their whole supply because no one wanted street grime in their sandwich bag when they could hit 7/11 and pick up a regulated sack of dope for cheaper. I saw someone park their car in the middle of the road with the hazards on and sit cross-legged behind it to watch the lights blink. Society was in a state of transition. 

   On the day that the products landed, they invented one that came to be known as The Suicide Stick. This was an item in the vain of a joint, a rolled up piece of rice paper that was full of the most heinous phenelthylamines, tryptamines, opiates, psychedelics and agonizingly brilliant sprinkles of amphetamines. The Stick was a foot long but most people made it through four inches before they went into a coma or a chemical-adrenaline rage that left them halfway out of their cars which were halfway out of the wall of an apartment building. We’ve had a lot of traffic accidents lately.  

      This Stick was the solution to the social disease of addiction. If the people who really wanted to get high could get higher than they have ever been with a few tokes out of this -thing- naturally, they would want to keep smoking it. They would smoke as far as they could, go insane, and then in that stupor they would be presumed to die. The rampage that followed the conversion to hysteria would likely end other lives and cause damage to business, costing money in law enforcement, repairs, prison time and funerals, all keeping the economy smoothly rolling along.