What Readers Feel

*All scientific data has been provided by NASA and their false research departments in real data.

This really happened.

This really happened.

A Crow Won't Fly The Short Way.

A Crow Won't Fly The Short Way.

My street value has the worth of my expired bus pass, that I found. On the ground. That I sold to a tourist, I think. I can’t really be sure because I never saw him before. I really have let myself go. It always happens over time with one missed step in some sort of direction that wasn’t the right one. These STEPS were habits. Sex. Drugs. More Sex. Hunger.  Uh- Yes, that’s a lie, because I’m garbage, I never had sex, ever. I have done drugs, and I am hungry, but not for the hunger of something physical. I just haven’t ate yet or is it eaten? I’m on drugs. I don’t care, but I should eat, what was I talking about?

I’ll be right back.

Well to begin, no amount of elegance can cover that cough, that woman over there, out there, you see her? Walking with her trim navy-blue dress cut above the knees with white stockings. Well, she let out this cough bursting beyond her lips into nothing, her dress creased around her ribs letting it out while her overly painted face showed nothing but cracks around her eyes.

She was stunning, but I guess you missed it, but that cough gave me a vivid picture in my mind. Her sitting on a couch in gray jogging pants and a baggy shirt that was most likely her ex-boyfriends in college. She probably had a million ice-cream stained battle scars on her shirt from her short, stressful, days at the office filing papers for part of the day, part time hoping for fulltime. Her elegance for all to see, fooling everyone with an eighteen-block radius until she went home and was free to be herself. I would have fucked her, I think. If I can fuck my hand, I can fuck about anything if you think about it.

It's always about sex, has been for a long time. I don’t know really anything about sex and history, but people are still screwing. Most for anything other than a sexual pleasure. You see sex is something like hunger, which I’m still hungry, I just forgot about it. I’m still on drugs. But sex, like hunger, is just a feeling of needing to be fed. We can manage without both, but when oppressed by that vicious mind inside your head, bad things develop. If you’ve never been hungry, then you haven’t experienced the bottom picking of fulfilling that emotion. When you’re hungry you will do whatever it is to be fed, only holding off the worst part of you. When you want to have sex, not that I have felt this pure sexy emotion, you would fuck that fat girl.

I don’t undermine the beauty of fat girls. Really. I undermine my default settings shallow pond of my own taught masculinity. I’m fifteen and on drugs. Any feminine counseling was beaten out of me. I am learning, I think, but a fat girl has no value for me. I don’t know any, but I see them, and I’m guessing they’re full. I bet my father's generation thinks my generation is insane. It's the same difference, really, the same people with fading attitudes towards everything. We still have rich and poor people, dumb people and smart people. There is fat, skinny, athletic, ugly, beautiful, and egotistical people around just like when he was my age. I'm a breed of my father and he was a breed of his father. We're all just one and the same, an error of miscalculation which should have been corrected years ago.

I’ll be right back.

War would have solved this, a death in the male side of the family. Now it's the perfect time really. For love and country my ass, we control the mass children fighting now. Violence is the air we all breathe, it's always there and we take it for granted. There's just so much of it, we are all prepared and not afraid of it, we aren’t sad about death anymore unless it's over a pet or celebrity we saw in the movies a few times. I really believe it’s the perfect time for a big war, a mass genocide of my generation. I can see it now, my friends killing somebody else's friends in some country, doesn’t matter which. They signed up to shoot guns and kill, and get paid for it. It's a weird thought, but they didn’t have any ambition anymore, they just got lazy. The big war machine could come in and sell death and destruction. Make it sexy with courageous violence and get all these young people to sign up. It would wipe out people like me, the blemishes of young people in an adult society.

This war machine, a big war, could kill off countless men and women that were just draining the world. It's vulgar, I know, but think of the stupid people you know. Think of all the dumb things they said. Think of what they’re doing now and what their families did to contribute to building something powerful, beer and football? This war machine can kill them all. It makes me wonder if all the war generations felt like this or was it more patriotic. I'm just not sure.

I guess without war we would have even more dumb people walking around, not saying good morning to one another. I'm not a bad guy half the time, I just understand things. I don’t cry or anything when bad things happen to people, but if you directly chose to put yourself in certain situations knowing that bad things could happen, well that’s just life half of the time. I’m no better now, but moments pass, and I will find a new situation for myself to make it all better. It all starts with food. Let’s go eat. I’m on drugs. See what happens when you are hungry, you lose your emotional thinking. It's discomforting to me the bond that blood has and the small things that can break it.

God did that for me. The thing with religion is that there is no evidence, no history of the Bible outside the Bible. Your God and everybody else's is just a teacher with no credentials. God is humanity's psychiatrist with a city college education. All he does is listen, doesn’t diagnose, and he just gave you a book to fix your problems yourself. After a while all you people just started killing yourself over it because illiteracy is rampant with a book that long and boring. Religion is the worst drug, it's like telling an addict why they should stop, but they can't listen to the facts because they like how they feel.

I’ll be right back.

There is no patience in getting high. Whether it’s talking to myself, no reluctant waiting time to act. I see this in my head with everything I do, a constant marathon of consumable beauty and evil. I see the worst parts of myself through all of this, but for a certain moment I have clarity of the perfect sleep, the sustained moment of why I chose the drug of the day I could find. I hope in my highest form of intelligence, which is minimal coming soon, that you don’t see this as a lecture but just life in this moment. I feel the need to talk sometimes and not to listen. I don’t know what is worse, listening to a piece of human garbage or talking to one. Now we just love too much, love to care, love to listen, love to hate or make fun. We are approaching a moment in time where we can’t separate ourselves.

We are all in the retrospect of love, a total objective and misunderstood concept of what we thought this or that version of love was. Love in definition compared to how we use it on the daily routine of our life is ever changing, an illusion of attraction to one’s belief that it was or is love. It is a subjective feeling, but with that comes other dormant and not so dormant qualities we can express with one another resulting in acceptance or rejection. The number of variables needed for love is astronomical with simplicity and complexity entwined within each other, never being equally observed by any participant.

The bias of love is nurtured by an unqualified simplistic deep-down hate. Loving oneself before the loving of another is a defense mechanism of escapism. In present terms of knowing exactly who you are, living in consciousness of self, you always know. It’s not hiding from the deep emotions or learning: whether it be physical, emotional, spiritual, or sexual with another person that’s not you. The idea of love is not simple, but complex with that hatred and ignorance, which is why I’m not lonely now, but not from loss of love. I just feel alone sometimes.

I’ll be right back.

In the frailty of loneliness comes a self-respect daunting in perspective, slowing yourself to counting every moment of memory past and present. An overwhelming conscious behavior in restricting anything but growth through the pain of knowing who you are down to the bare minimum of current life. You are, in your current state, have been in your mind since you can remember, and the job of loneliness isn't to make you bitter against those who have a happy life in perspective, but to grow you in experience of what it is to be exactly who you are and who you will be. Embrace the times you have with your own mind, your battles, your failures, your successes, because only you should embrace the moments you conquer within. This will make you strong for the present moments and will keep you away from being weak in the future. I’m on drugs still.

I’ll be right back.

I wish this was all a dream as I would wake up alert and calm, with only sweat drenched hair. All the hunger has passed, as it does in moments of said awakening. I love that word, awakening, a cute term of being at the peak of the high. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but, I’m on drugs. I know. It’s just me. I selfless reminder that I am in full control while being controlled. The hunger is back now, I probably seem a little strange to you now or maybe even through all of this. I could wake myself up and just eat but here I am staring in front of you, a reflection of myself patiently wasting all the moments of my day, at least I can see myself as I am and how I think. I don’t look half bad for being up since yesterday, I couldn’t even tell you the time, in this place, my spot, it’s dark from the clouds. It might be morning still or an approaching night.

I’ll be right back.

I didn’t end up here on purpose, it was all by accident. I can’t seem to handle the short way of living. If I had a cigarette I would take each drag with a different hand, a different side of my mouth and I wouldn’t pace but maybe a few steps. I get the nerve to move about, but I end up stuck, afraid of something to push me a little further. This is why I’m here by accident. I run away from the past and hide in the present fearing for the future. My family, what’s left, doesn’t know I’m here. I don’t think I’ll bother them with the details. Nothing really makes sense anymore to them about me. I will happily grow up alone for most of my life before I settle down for the long nap. I wouldn’t mind an extended future, but my bones hurt with a swollen mess of delayed muscle movement. I’d like to think this is where all the habits came from, but I hurt too much for the moment not to continue. All the people around look happy enough. Wasting away. I think as well. To be honest I’m not entirely sure where I am.

Upon the destination, for arrival is varied, a complete interrupted lack of destiny is permitted. Three separate, though conjoined, luxuries of one self is and forever will be poison for the other swirling in what nature, not god, has planted in us; the first being the body, the second being the "soul," the last being the mind. Life is our final destination in regard to what we know, not the thoughts others have passed down in a mass of manipulation; heaven or hell, reincarnation, the white glow of the tunnel ending with a distant black speck. Coherent knowledge only gives us these three separate luxuries, not the end life result. Our body goes where we are, the mind is always where we left it last, and the soul is attempting failure to escape. With no amount of fortune or self-discipline to meditate will we ever relax in freedom. A dream of figures promises us "Peace," but in the pure time of things, this isn’t true, just a trick of the aging mind that is hanging around to east one last happy feeling. The body upon practicing any form to die or stay alive will dissolve with a resting heartbeat of zero; no amount of preparation will give the body one more second of life before a complete act of self-destruction. The mind is a labyrinth of scar tissue our body and soul will give us. No preparation is needed on final descent, just one last breath, short or long, deep or shallow, into the abyss of unknowingness.

I think it’s time to be forgotten, if you want to know the truth, I always hated saying goodbye to people I love because I don’t work out.

 

I’ll be right back, I’ll be right back.

Pink Band-Aids and Microwave Pizza

Pink Band-Aids and Microwave Pizza

Milly Leigh and The Accidental Mosh Pit

Milly Leigh and The Accidental Mosh Pit