By
James Olsen
Nov
1, 2001
You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
You wouldn't understand.
You don't want to know the truth.
"But-I'm a good person", you say.
"I'm okay. I love my neighbor. I eat my veggies and brush my pearly-whites.
I read my paper and suck my bacon and drink my black coffee-bean extract.
I subscribe to TV detonator. I rub half a cup of freshly squeezed eel-pussy-juice
on my armpits each and every bright and sunny day. I smoke the correct
brand of tampon."
And…you're right.
But it isn't enough, is it?
Why are you still so sad?
…confused?
…lonely?
…adrift?
…why is it that you find yourself lacking any real sense of purpose?
…why do you suffer?
…why do others have so much-while you have so friggin' little?
Why do you wake up each and every morning-in
a drunken stupor-unable to gather-for your self-even the most rudimentary
of thoughts?
…like-what kind of cereal do I want to shove into my undeserving maw?
…which tee-shirt shall I wear?
What's the use?
To be honest-I don't know.
It's like-I am the most beautiful worm on the
dung heap. I shall curl and writhe above all others. I will eat this
dung as if it were sweet, sweet candy-and there's nothing you can do
about it, my friend.
If you want access-you will have to go through the proper channels…you
will have to jump through the pre-designated hoops. You are expected
to show proof of your worthiness.
You are expected to show proof of your worminess.
And smile.
And tip your hat.
And fill out application after application-each
one proving the same as the last-that you really aren't qualified for
anything.
You aren't even qualified to fill the jobs you used to make fun of.
So…what brought you to this place?
What brought you to here and now?
Were you-at some unknown point in time-lifted
up by your britches and dropped into this mad human gumbo-as part of
some terrible joke?
And if so…who made those britches, anyway? They
reek of designer phoniness. Those aren't 501s, my brother.
What color do you wear-on your cheek?
Is that wannabe-orange? I love each and every cell of human tissue-and
recognize each and every fragment of dirty ass-tissue that goes swimming
down the swirling river of blood.
Somewhere-far from the here of now-somewhere
a noble savage has just decided-"fuck it!! I'm through with these old
has-been, was-been kind o' ways. I'm movin' to the city. I'm fixin'
to learn the ways of the hard street-the real street-the friggin' big-time
fancy street."
And as that thought passes…half of a piece of
bullshit nearly collides with a handful of barely interesting societal
concerns.
And I come to the last word on this subject.
Of course.
What?
I mean…isn't there even a fraction of a self out there that wants to
go down this dark and lonesome road with yours truly?
Am I truly, then-alone?
I'm fully sick of all the things I can lose.
I'm sick of the loss and sick of the gain-it's a dangerous headspace
for a head-and a dangerous minefield for the mind.
I think back to a young heroin addict I was
once acquainted with.
Her name was…Sulu or Lulu or Lesley or Kathryn or Rainbow or something
like that…anyway…she was a great gal-a real trooper.
She had this wonderful knack for turning the
negative into positive.
She would look at a pile of turds and say-"that would look nice if it
was wrapped in gold-leaf."
Or she would look at a person and say-" he would be nice if he had a
completely different personality and looked just like Johnny Depp."
She was-what I would call-a real friggin' winner.
She was true blue…and she was super-blue, through and through-from the
top of her tangled mane of fried hair-right down to the utmost extremities
of her unkempt toes.
She was the living personification of lovely, enticing, intoxicating
heroin-chicklet.
And I-of course-loved her….
Despite the best of my good sense…and the best of my best intentions…I
loved her skanky ass with all the warm gushiness and unrealistic sentiment
that I could've conceivably harbored within the sorted confines of my
flabby American heart.
I loved her like a chubby, long-haired computer-programmer
loves his manga.
And who could blame me?
And if you did?
What?
Bring it-the fuck-on.
And then leave me-the fuck-alone, okay?
Let's get out of here. I'm sick of growing vegetables.
But-"what's it all about, James"-you ask…. "What's
the meaning behind all of this nonsense", you wonder.
Well….
I've got one of two answers for you.
I don't think you deserve both.
…so I will give you less than half.
Perhaps you should….
(to be continued)
What do you think America?
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