Senseful ramblings of an incoherent nature from a delusional schizophrenic (or my views on current events)

Friday, October 20, 2006


The familiar rush of endorphins finally began to course through my veins. I grinned, slightly, and let out a warm, yet subtle laugh. I sat back, closed my eyes and drifted off into a whirly trance.

A few minutes later, or hours, I opened my eyes only to have them not focus properly. I turned my head to the right and closed my eyes again, returning to my whirly trance and laughed once more. The splendor has decreased, but I am still feeling good. Good enough to FUCK. Good enough to laugh.

Hours pass, or minutes. My skin itches and my brow is moist. I somehow lost a sock and my dick is hanging limply outside of my pants. What happened to me? I used to be different. Im good. Im a good person. My back itches. I laugh it off, what other option do I have.

I try to masturbate, but it wont stay hard. Those are the consequences I suppose. That and this damned itching. Ive become a broken record of my own self-loathing. My dick is still in my hands, although Im not away.

Seconds; minutes; hours; they all blend together as if time were standing still. I feel comatose - dead, yet strangely alive, probably from that itch which has become a persistent reminder of my sustainability and in this case, life itself.

What the fuck is my dick doing in my hand?

I need food. I need to feel better, and not just about myself, just in general. I havent eaten in days or weeks. I used to be good about that, when my parents took care of me. That was a different life. I was better, but I am still good.

I put my dick back in my pants, fall off the sofa and reach up to the table to grab my wallet and my keys. I crawl to the door, open it, and crawl down my front stoop. No one is around, that is, no one who can see me. Im Casper to the world, only less friendly, but still good. My brothers just want to haunt. Ive heard echoes say that I only want to fuck. They echo loudly and constantly.

I slither down the street towards my car. Im covered with red and orange wet leaves from head to toe. I have pine needs in my hair and dirt on my face. A pine cone made its way into my partly torn sweatshirt pocket. It belongs there. It has its place.
The door opens and I hurl myself into the seat. Time stands still. The kids playing in the street dont see me. I drive off, not hearing the soft thuds of flesh meeting with pavement from under me. Im still invisible.

The green light from the store sign appears in the distance. It's warm and welcoming. I want to be there, it's where I belong. Ill be there in a blink of an eye. My eyes gently close.

I smell smoke and hear a ringing. People are yelling, others are screaming and Im still invisible in every sense of the word. I will be for each and every second that I survive. The green is gone. I can only feel a flashing blue and red, and the screams.

My neck is hot and wet. My inner thigh is wet also, but every so cold. Everything around me is crunchy. Im in my whirly trance again. Time doesnt exist. I reach for my dick and laugh a soft, bubbly, whirly laugh.

Im good.

Or I was.

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Mother, PLEASE!

I am a reasonable person, indeed! I try to be as fair to all people as possible, as long as I am treated equally as fair - reasonable. Sure I may have outbursts of comedic gold at the expense of the less fortunate, but if those people cant laugh at themselves, even just a little bit, is that my fault? Hardly.

But much like the Queen (Latifah) in the mid 90s, "Ive had it up to here" - with mothers.


Mothers. You read correctly.

Not all mothers, mind you, just most of them. Most of my disgust is centered towards younger mothers, but there are still some older mothers who havent quite cut the cord who are still equally as annoying. Let me explain:

Women, once knocked up, form some sort of entitlement that I just cant comprehend. They feel that the world should stop for them and their baby, and, quite frankly, it shouldnt. Dont get me wrong, I am quite thankful that you women aid in the continuation of our species, but I dont believe you should be getting away with murder just because you feel you can.

Besides the crippled, who gets better parking spaces in parking lots?

Who allowed to board planes first?

Why is it ok for your kid to scream at the top of it's lungs without reproduction - "aww, who's the cute screaming baby. Baby is so good. I love baby." Well, I dont love baby, take it outside or shut it up!

How did the stroller become part of the female body and why are there no rules of etiquette for its use? My foot didnt mysteriously appear under the stroller's wheel, you ran over it, and can you please stop using it as an obstacle that I need a compass to navigate? Am I the only one who gets nostalgic over the scene in The Untouchables? Glorious.

Yes, I understand that you give birth and that it is painful, but dont tell me I cant handle that pain because I am a man. That's just silly talk. It would hurt a lot more if a baby had to come out of my penis, so it just makes sense that women give birth out their relatively gaping hole. Gaping, really? Fine, a sometimes gaping hole.

And it isnt like I checked off the box for not wanting to give birth. If I had to, I would, without complaint, but I dont, so as my father would tell me, "tough shit."

Look, Im not out to get womanhood mad at me, the last thing I need is a gaggle of angry, pants-pulled-too-high feminists chasing me down with their brooms and rolling pins. I just want women to get over their sense of entitlement that comes once a sperm pierces the egg. I want to be able to get up from a table in a restaurant without being blocked in by a stroller. I want women to realize that there are other people in this world that matter other than their snot spitting, dirty pants wearing, time consuming children.

Is that too much to ask?

And again quoting the Queen, cant we all get along under "U.N.I.T.Y."?

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Bobbin' Away in My Barrel

At first I heard nothing but a low rumble as the water I was swimming in began to wave, not unlike the water in the glass in that stellar dinosaur movie Jurassic Park. boom-boom. boom-boom.

Breath. Dive.

The door slowly creaked open and a pale, mealy looking foot appeared, followed by an equally pale and mealy cankle. The rest of the leg emerged, complete with no definition other than pock marks - probably a result of too much sitting in front of a TV on a couch that doesnt breath well. The rest of the body was grossly worse. Perhaps this was a woman, once. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

Breath. Dive.

“It” was big, not just overweight, but truly big - the kind of big where water aerobics really is the only option for exercise because everything else will just wreck the knees and any other joint that unfortunately gets in the way. Not tall/big mind you, trollishly small in fact, but wide/big. "It’s" legs rubbed together at each step, not allowing hair to grow where it normally would and leaving a reddish rash in "It’s" ever present wake. The bathing suit was, thankfully, a one piece, a dark blue number. Darker colors hide problem areas, although no suit could be quite dark enough. The arms were equally angry, mainly because the body between them wouldnt allow for them to meet in the middle

Breath. Dive.

"It’s" face was angry. Not for any reason other than years of frowning for no reason at all. Jolly it was not. The eye-lids were covered with angry skin. The check bone completely absent and the chin infinitely duplicated. The downward turned lips were wrinkled from years of over use. “It” wheezed, “one or two?”

Breathe. Dive.

“One.” Another figure appeared, almost twinnish in nature and garb – just as pale and mealy, but apparently with worse eyes. Boom-Boom. Boom-Boom. The second monster got in the pool, proving the physical laws of displacement to be true as the water level rose dramatically. Boom-Boom.

Breath. Dive. Spin.

The other behemoth trotted over to the pool closet and removed two pool flotation devices. BOOM-BOOM. Both were long and thin, made of Styrofoam, or some other sort of flotation material. One was purple, the other green – both had the look of terror in their non-existent eyes. BOOM-BOOM. “It” made "It’s" way back to the pool ladder and lowered herself into the pool. Displacement in action again.

Breath. Dive.

The one handed the purple floatation device to the other and they both made their way to the middle of the pool, taking over the lane where I was swimming my laps. Sure there were three other open lanes in the pool, but mine was already warmed up from my use, so I guess it was the most inviting.

Breath. Rest.

They each placed the floatation devices between their unfortunate legs and began to jump up and down. I can only imagine that the water between their feet and the bottom of the pool must give them a similar experience as the wind would give a normal person who has just jumped off of the ground.

If you panted these “It’s” red on top and white on the bottom they would resemble fishing bobbers, if you were fishing for Grey Whales. If they were orange, each could be the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. Then again, if they were red they would be apples in a rather large bobbing tank for Paul Bunyan and his blue Ox.

Breath. Dive.

After bouncing up and down for a good ten minutes, and probably each burning what, one calorie between the two of them (?), they began bouncing up and down and moving forward and back in the pool, although their speed could only be equaled by that of the grass growing.

As I would pass them in the pool their force would push me almost entirely out of my lane. And the wake that they left behind made the pool choppy and almost unmanageable. Ever see the movie The Perfect Storm, where two gigantic hurricanes converged and tossed George Clooney and friends around like they were in a toy boat? These two “Its” were each a storm, respectively, and I was the poor little fishing boat.

Breath. Dive.

Thankfully I learned that I could swim under their wake and come through unscathed, an option not available to Mr. Clooney, but my trials werent over, not by a long shot. As I resurfaced I realized that these celestial bovines were inching closer to my lane, and by proxy, to me. Now they were moving perpendicular to the lanes in the pool, still hopping up and down, but without the aid of their floatation devices.

The bottom of the pool, regardless of the weight being dispersed by the aid of the water, stressed under their collective pressure. I nearly incurred their wrath, but managed to quickly adjust my direction and skate by uninjured.

Breath. Move over two lanes. Dive.

It was at this point that I came to the realization that I needed to hedge my bets and get out before I was taken out. I quickly headed towards the ladder, avoiding the whirlpools caused by their shifting bodies, and leaped out, prideful that I did not meet my demise at the hands of these two brooding beasts.

I doubt the pool will ever be the same.