Your life is lived in your head Better make it good or just get dead I did both but now I'll never see the end Don't try to pretend This isn't a surprise, we both know I had it planned Out like Hunter Thompson in the middle of nowhere No hair, we try to care And the world shakes us off we seem to comply I'll never have more bullshit like this when I die I've given up on romances of second chances Death on my grave, don't give a shit where he dances I may have done some good things Doesn't change the dial on my mood ring Still carrying around the sure things, death and taxes All my positive words are hereby redacted I made a promise and I'm sure to see it quit So I went to buy a nice white jacket, seems to fit A padded room came free with the purchase of one or more They tried to chase me out the door When they caught me, I was tackled to the floor An asshole bird landed by me just to say “Nevermore” I wrote this as a notice of suicide Tried to die My heart refused to comply Much like a zombie now I wander around Dead in my head, my chest still pounds So I'll drink like a fish, and toke cause life's a joke Until my liver dries up and runs off to Miami Where its meets up with my lungs, escaped and in a hammock Leaving me to be dearly departed with the best of them Tried to make a deal with God Can't get in touch with him So I talked to the devil instead I never can quite hear what he says
I feel sick to my stomach Found the right recipe To turn myself inside out And burn my heart in effigy Don't need to cut to guess I still bleed Let me ask, what do you feed on? The want of the world for you to get gone? Doctors ask me “How'd you read in the dark with the lights on?” Burning knowledge like a Christian book club Don't let mom see when she asks about the hub bub I think its quite evident that I'm insane Not questioning if what falls out is my brain Soulless wonder wanders and ponders Existence being subjective bonkers So lets wrap up with a recap No heart, no soul, no brain Without all these I can't give crap Without all these I can't feel pain Made of clay and magic words Inactive and shit upon by the birds
I use my writing often as a way to be an asshole. I actually don’t like being an asshole, and I actually kind of get a dirty feeling when I am less than kind to someone. However, I am quick to temper and it burns hot, and sometimes won’t quiet until I write something angry, be it poetry or a story, someone has to pay.
The title of this post has made me want to right the following fictional bit of blubber:
THE URGE TO BE A DICK My name is Richard, and something stupid inside me blames my parents for this name, as if it is the source. It isn't. My love for the female form is. I want to be a dick. My doctor's name is Dr. Slice. He was named after an orange soda. I ask if he likes pepper, and he says he hates that joke. I'm here for my consultation on the required surgeries to make me perfect. "Have you considered circumcision?" Dr. Slice asked. "I've heard that looks the best, but I'm worried about my head getting cold." "Dicks can wear sweaters, this is the twenty first century after all." Dr. Slice said through his orange rotted teeth. "Now I really need to discuss your eyesight. I have to break and remove the nose so I can push your eyes closer together, as you need to be able to see out of a rather skinny hole. Also we need to test you with several different species of large lizard to find your eyelid match. The reason I bring this up is that it is noted that you have rather poor eyesight and are not a candidate for laser surgery. We can continue but it is highly likely your eyesight will continue to diminish, and once this surgery is done, you can't wear glasses again." "I'll need to pray on it and speak with my wife." I left and walked the cold shame off on my way home. I enter my residence and look up at my 80 foot wife, knowing that I still lack the ability to fulfill her needs. Soon my sweet, my mind whispers as I kiss her shin.
Anyway, back to the point. I sometimes have the urge to say and do things contrary to my nature. A quote I love was in Art School Confidential (and I might misquote, but the gist is there) “Everyone is an asshole, I can just afford to be myself.”
I think about that a lot, and I don’t (as some do) equate it to a lack of church goers. Other than weddings, funerals, and special occasions otherwise unmentioned, I have never gone to church. I know nearly none of the prayers, nor the saints, nor the super powered people otherwise unmentioned. I was still raised not to be a dick. You meet someone for the first time once, and they remember it, even if its a superficial interaction. For instance, I’m a clerk at a small market store, and I try to be nice to everyone, and its easy and natural. Being nice to a dick is harder, but still easy, as its me, its not a lie.
Being nice gets boring, and you just want to rip someone’s head off. My outlet is my comedy, which is almost always writing a silly story (see above) or talking with a friend and riffing on an idea to make ourselves laugh. Sometimes my anger needs more than comedy, so I write something with more violence, or even just more bad things happening to the character. Its exercising complete control over a world.
Another example of how I am by nature nice and/or good: I have a lot of trouble doing bad things in video games (especially something like Fable or Mass Effect where it tracks your actions) even for gamerscore.
And with that I close this idiots mouth by way of breaking his fingers. Until next time I have something to say.
Two men sat staring at one another in a cell. The cell was one of hundreds, possibly millions, in this dungeon. It was made of cold stone, on all the walls, and the bars from the strongest material ever found by humaniis: Wraith’s blood.
Wraith’s blood, when cooled, is stronger than steal and impossible to break. This is lent credibility by not only witnessing it yourself, but in general knowledge of how difficult it is to kill a Wraith in the first place.
Of the two men, one seemed to have a half-full glass of shit, while the other was sporting a much more realistic half-empty one.
The positive prick spoke first, as they seem to when things are looking ill.
“Pardon sir, but I have sat here for quite some time looking for a companion to share a few tales with. Might you be so kind as to listen for a while? It seems as though neither of us have other urgencies to see to.” The man removed a multicolored sharp hat from his head and placed it at his side. His face was hard to see in the poor light, the only thing one could make out was how many colors were on his hat. “My name, should it please you to know, is Gerno Metalmasher, son of Terno Metalmasher, son of Oerno Metalmasher, son of Yerno Woodmasher. As you might be able to deduce from my attire, I am, or was, a wizard.”
Half-empty just continued looking at Gerno, with no sign of interest.
Gerno continued, “I was not the greatest wizard, although I could say I was, and you would have no way of knowing the difference. But alas, I will tell the truth, here of all places. I was a dark wizard, and I did horrible things. I ripped children out of their mothers to make my spells greater! And I would burn entire villages to the ground, out of boredom, or even just an urge to redecorate.”
Gerno pulled himself toward the other man while remaining seated.
“Let me let you in on a little trade secret of wizards. We are immortal. Not many know this, because they die off eventually, whole dynasty of questioners. Popular mythos would have you believe that we live centuries, which is of course true, except for the finality of it. I have been alive for 8 seasons. Which makes me a young one, as you might suspect. But I’m referring to a magical season, which is about every hundred and a half years, when the world angrily tries to shake the fleas off its back. I have witnessed eight of those, and the ninth was approaching when I was stolen and dropped here.
“Being immortal as I mentioned, I can’t die obviously, so when a magician causes a nuisance, they come here. The Dungeons of Yrella. Yrella, as you might not know, him being an old god, was the dead god, god of death, grim reaper, what you wish to cal him is on you. Which at long last brings me to an important question; who are you Mr. Half-empty?”
Half-Empty let the silence hang for a while, enjoying it.
He leaned into a shred of light dancing across the tiles. “Am I Yrella Mr. Metalmasher. I am here to orient you in your new life as a dead man.”
I just got the chance to watch the complete second season of Eastbound and Down, and I noticed something in the finale that was largely missing in the season.
I’m writing about the emotion displayed when Kenny speaks to April. The only real emotion prior was Stevey and his wife (whose name is escaping me) which was largely played for laughs.
As the credits rolled I understood why, Jody Hill directed. He seems to be able to play the laughs perfectly but also pull emotion from people generally in comedy. The other directors (primarily David Gordon Green) while good directors can’t seem to balance it the same.
I obviously can’t say if it was more based on the episodes they were given, or maybe just one director deciding to play more comedy than comedic tragedy.
Anyway, my late night opining went on longer than expected. So…