Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Dad

Growing up in our household was like a roller coaster ride, what with slow suspenseful climbs, ups & downs, twists & turns, and brain-rattling rails and wooden supports of questionable construction. I can recall twice being so scared I thought I would die from nervousness if not at my father's hands. We always played outside, most often with the doors locked and orders not to try to come in until called in. One afternoon I thought it would be cool to set our garden hose to the ground and, while running full blast see how far into the ground it would go. I guess I let my little water drilling exercise go on a little longer than I should've and the hose ended up getting stuck, though I cannot recall how far down it'd gone. I felt like vomiting for what seemed at the time like hours until I finally somehow managed to pull that hose out. Yeah, something so stupid would've gotten me the beating of a lifetime. The other moment, which I believe went on for several days, was when I was forced to answer a phone call while my father stood feet away, always reluctant to answer calls himself due to who the fuck knows what. I wasn't even 12 at the time, and I tried my best to remember what the caller said (it was obviously someone who was owed money or something), and when I was unable to relay the message to my father who was now towering over me, he threatened me with my life if the guy didn't call back. 

What's that? My hour's up already? Okay, see you next week Doc.

A Note Left

 I've always felt like I won the lottery. I mean, I have a loving wife and daughter, an enviable job, more friends than I can give my rare sparetime to, and about as much control of my alcohol consumption as one could want. A fair portion of said friends envy my wealth and possessions.

Money has never been a problem, and my wife spends more on herself and our girl than most ever get to. Rufus, our Golden Retriever, adores me as I do him. My sleek black '24 Range Rover occupies our attached two-bay, surrounded by but safely distanced from my seldom-used DeWALT collection. Here's where things get sticky. They're getting too close. Investigating the latest discovery- my most recent mistake- and following a lead from an alleged eyewitness, the police are zeroing in. Oh sure, I haven't been questioned yet, but it's coming. I can feel it. What I thought was a stretch of lonesome former cattle path was popular with joggers and the like. I'd gotten lazy and didn't dig this one deep enough.

 Unable to feel remorse and regretting only that I was about to get caught, I felt the time was right. Goodbyes suck, so this will have to do. I'm sorry, Susie. You were the best. Jill, listen to your mom. Grow up to be the best. Rufus, don't worry, pal. Your mom will likely meet someone who'll love you almost as much as I did. God, past tense really hits home. My clock is ticking. My girls are off to visit the in-laws for the weekend. Fuck the garden hose; this calls for the leftover length of flexible foil dryer vent. See, I'm actually using some of my tools (if you consider duct tape a tool). I know this is chicken shit. I'm sorry, but only because I know Susie will be the one who finds me. Please don't hate me, Sue.

Can't Make This Shit Up

So I created a post on a certain classified ad website looking for a cheap apartment where I might be able to trade my handyman skills for a reduced rent.  It took a week or so, but my first reply came from a male person being who said he had a house-share arrangement that he thought might work, but he wanted me to know up front that he favored walking around the house naked.  "As long as you're okay with that, maybe we can talk," he added.  He also added pictures. I threw up my trail mix and now I'm sad because I don't feel like replacing it.

Scolding Turds or Something- I Tend to Ramble About Shit, and I Think One of My Neighbors is Being Abused Regularly

 From my bed and with the door opened just so, I can watch at night every time one of the aids slips into the room across the hall from mine and then back out approximately fifteen minutes later.  I'm sure he thinks the nighttime trysts go unnoticed, though I'm also sure he likely wouldn't give a shit that one of his charges knew what he was up to, but that's all for another time.  

I'm dealing with a gastro-whatever-the-fuck issue at the moment, on top of everything else (or, more directly, what put me here in the first place- again, another time), and the daytime pain, cramps and bloated sensation are replaced at night with the ability to actually feel my shit- or the stuff that'll become my shit- sliding its eventual way towards daylight. 

The cold, hard plastic seat slides to one side as I plant my cheeks firmly, and I'm reminded that I've yet to let anyone who might give a fuck know that one of the seat bolts has snapped off.  I know they have a maintenance "team" here, though I've never actually seen anything being repaired and it seems more and more each day that anything falling into disrepair here shall remain so for eternity.

I'm usually pretty regular on my own, thanks, though I'm certain we're all given daily laxatives in some of the bland heaps of garbage that arrive in front of us three times a day, and almost as soon as I'm seated my shit slides right out of me, jetting into the bowl with great shit-determination.  

 

Spendthrift (I'm trying to be nice here)

So anyway- 

It's amazing how fucking wasteful some people are.  I know of a human being, generally a good person to my face but in all honesty quite shallow and self-important, who puts on this air of   "save the environment", "recycle", "healthy habits", "reduce/reuse", "compost", etc., etc., etc.  Said wastrel probably tosses out more food in a week than I buy in two or three.

  Yeah, the broccoli, parsley, peppers, yams and oranges were in his trash. And don't even get me started on another bag the following week that weighed about 40 lbs. and was full of partially eaten takeout, ribs, steak, sausages, a full, unopened container of fresh chicken breasts, soups, sauces, and yeah, more produce that was only slightly not fresh.  And he's the type that only buys "the best", so you know it's not the cheap shit that the average person can only afford.  In today's world, where so many are struggling to make ends meet and can't afford even the basics, seeing this shit makes me sick to my stomach.

Okay, I'm done.

A New Addiction

Well, that last one scared even me.  It was too long ago to remember what I was feeling at the time, so there's no explaining it.  Plus, my brain- and my creative abilities- have hit a wall that I hope is only temporary.  Anyway, this post's about addiction.  I'm struggling with an addiction of sorts, though not in the way you're probably thinking.  I'm addicted to a particular jobs website because I'm having employment issues.  Don't get me wrong- I've got a decent job, but things change, you know, life changes.  I've been poring over job listings, sucking up all the time I'd ordinarily be writing or reading, eagerly rising at ridiculous hours, hurrying to log in and enter all sorts of search terms.  One thing that's become crazy clear: employers should pay closer attention.  With staffing shortages, changes brought on by the pandemic and workers emboldened by new opportunities like working from home, starting their own businesses and the like , it's looking from the amount of time I spend searching like employers aren't catching on and upping their salary game to keep up with what's going on.  In my field of "expertise" which shall for the time be left unknown the salary ranges I'm seeing posted are insulting.  But it's not only in jobs for which I'd be qualified.  All fields seem to be sorely, disgustingly lacking.  Many employers should be embarrassed by what wallet squalor they're offering vs. the qualifications they're looking for.  I don't get it, especially in this age of new flexibility for job seekers.  In my particular field alone there are countless positions requiring degrees and boundless experience, yet offering hourly salaries that would make highschoolers scoff.   

Apple

 i am an apple

You know that saying

i'm sure you've all heard it

or maybe even said it yourself at

one time or another

i have no control over where i landed

or how close to the tree

sometimes when you cut into an apple that appears fresh clean and wholesome you find a small dark spot

a spot of rot so to speak

a spot of rot that should be cut out

the apple is good overall but theres that dark spot and sometimes it grows until the apple should be dispatched discarded and sometimes it just stays the same and no action need be taken

if the apple is never cut into the spot will never be found and the apple will appear insert air quotes here normal

functioning

Ashes Ashes- the inspiration

 A while after moving into the house my wife and I currently live in which, by the way, does have a beautiful fireplace, I realized that there was no clean-out for the ash pit.  Was the cast iron hatch removed and the hole blocked up?  Was there never one in the first place?  Who knows.  Curiosity got the best of me, so one day I removed the wood grate, lifted the lid & cleared the thick cobwebs and cautiously lowered my cell phone through the opening in the floor of the fireplace.  Sure, it was a little discomforting putting my arm down there, but I really wanted to see what it looked like.  We all find beauty in a wide range of shit, and the photos I took of the inside of our ash pit were, in my opinion, fascinating.  And no, I'm sorry to say, there were no bodies down there. 

Inside the actual ash pit.  The white spots are cobwebs

Unless, of course, they're buried beneath the mounds of powdery ash and soot at the bottom.

Ashes Ashes final

 I got sick of her bitching about everything, and she got sick of me just lying around, pissing and moaning.  After a while I stopped going to physical therapy and lied about it.  I knew she'd eventually find out, but I was caring less and less.  I spent more time at Casper's, the shit hole dive bar at the end of our street, just so I didn't have to go home.  I know, I know, home is where the heart is, and all that.  I just couldn't do it.  When I was home, we were at each other's throats almost constantly.  Something had to change, especially with the baby coming.  I just didn't know what.  All I wanted to do was tie one on and forget about everything.

Fat chance.  After she realized I'd drained what savings we had left she blew her top.  She told me I'd either have to get back to work or go live somewhere else.  She told me she couldn't take it any more.  Said she didn't need no slacker hanging around making things more miserable than they already were.  That was the final straw.  

  I'd needed to find a way to get rid of her but didn't honestly want to bury her out where critters would almost certainly dig her up and carry her parts off where someone might find them.  One of the things that struck our fancy most when we bought this house was the fireplace in the middle of the living room.  At the time I hadn't given it any thought, but realized after researching some things that there was no clean-out in the basement for the ash pit.  There was a trap door beneath the grate up in the fireplace, but no way to clean out the ash that got dumped down it.  "Well," I thought to myself, "no time like the present."  

After I'd cleaned up all the mess from her and sealed the chimney down in the basement I headed down to Casper's to think things over.  Any regrets?  Should've used more lime, maybe? I suppose I might be just a little sad, and mostly for the baby.  Will I miss her?  Hard to say.  Let's just allow some time for things to sink in. 

Ashes Ashes part I

Moving to the secluded area out by the lake four states away from both our fucked up families was the best thing we could've done for ourselves.  The toxicity had gotten overwhelming, the family drama nauseating.  We knew no one would ever visit, and that's how we liked it.  We were happy in our own little world out here.  Nothing lasts forever, though.  Sure, we'd joked about it aplenty.  "You know, I could chop you up and bury you out here and no one would ever find you," I'd jokingly said more than once.  She'd just laugh and agree, and everything would be okay.  I picked up work pretty easily when we relocated, and we decided she'd stay home and take care of pretty much everything.  First, she tried to respond with, "well I could do the same to you."  Then, "I guess your boss would wonder where you were, though."  Now, I know for most people, "jokes" like this would make one question the relationship, but we were, well, a little different.  You know, saw things with a twist.  One of the things we noticed when we first met was our shared off-kilter sense of humor.  

We kept to ourselves, didn't care to meet any neighbors or make friends, and life went on.  At first everything was good, we managed to put a bit in savings, and we'd settled into a nice quiet existence.  Then I got careless while moving some equipment, you know, trying to be all macho in front of the younger co-workers and all.  Then the baby came along.  Ordinarily that'd be fine, but with the mounting out-of-pocket shit, my physical therapy and whatnot, and being out of work for so many weeks well, things just kind of piled up.  

Mmm, Poppycock

 I suppose the worst part was his screams.  God, he was so fucking annoying, like a little kid who skinned his knee on the playground.  Big brother thought he could force me to scratch his back the way dad made us do his, but I wasn't having it.

I was trying to enjoy munching on the container of Poppycock that was typically reserved for the best-behaved of us, but since my brother and I were the only ones home and our father was out on one of his benders and likely wouldn't be back for another day or so, I decided to grab it from where it was hidden behind the flour and sugar up in the cupboard and claim it for my own.  The screaming had subsided for a bit, but I guess he thought dad might be home, so he started up again.  His fingernails lay in a grisly pile on the bathroom floor where I left them.  Why should I have to clean up his mess?  I'm the one who did all the work, what with having to find a decent pair of pliers, tie him down and all.  He even gave me a few bruises in the process.  It wasn't as bad as when I cut his dick off.  Oh, he'd made fun of me one too many times.  Told all his asshole friends my uncut little cock looked like a baby elephant trunk.  

You know, Poppycock sure blows Crunch 'n Munch and Cracker Jack out of the water, what with the thick caramel coating, the pecans and all.  This shit's delicious. Anyway, back to his dick.  So enough is enough, I thought, and when he was asleep I rolled over, sat on his chest so he couldn't move, and used mom's pinking shears to cut it off.  They sure were pink after that, let me tell you.  I'd be willing to bet he'd never make fun of my pecker ever again.  The screams came again, and he was really getting on my nerves.  It was almost as godawful as when I started slicing across his fucking forehead.  All I wanted was his scalp.  I had no intention of taking off his whole head or anything.  "What do you thing I am, some kind of animal?" I said as he groggily opened his eyes and realized what I was doing.  I'd put some of dad's pills in a spoon, crushed them up and put them in his Kool-Aid at snack time, so he was out like a light.  For a while, anyway.  Up til then I'd only imagined what it would sound like, so when I started pulling the hair and skin back over his noggin' the tearing sound almost made me gag.  It kind of came off in pieces, and I got bored and ended up leaving jagged parts attached by these weird little strings of meat and blood and stuff.  It was kind of gross, if you ask me. The whole point was to embarrass him like he did me when dad cut my hair funny 'cause he was drunk.  I had to go to school like that, and boy was I fuming.  "Not gonna make fun of me again, are 'ya?"  I said.  I got no response because I think he passed back out or something.  

Anyway, as I sat back and gave brief consideration to cleaning up the smears, splats and drips all over the place by now, I polished off the whole can of Poppycock.  I know, I know, you're thinking, "Boy, this guy's got no self control.  You'd think he'd save some for later."  I guess this is why mom used to say we couldn't keep stuff like this in the house.

Moving Day

When I was in grade school my father told us we were going to be moving to a new town.  He said we were buying an ice cream shop with a house attached in the hills of Berkshire County in Massachusetts.  After I made this announcement at school, Randy, one of my closest friends, made me a wooden sign and said all I'd have to do is paint our house number on it once I knew the address.  The sign was simply a stake painted gold with a dark purple arrow-shaped piece of pine nailed to the tip. 

This move never happened, and I'm sure this was one of many schemes my father dreamed up over the years in his maggot-infested mind.  

One day I did something bad.  I had a Suzy Homemaker oven on top of a low dresser in the bedroom I shared with two brothers.  Why it was in our room and not our sister's room across the hall, I don't know, and why it was atop a dresser I'll never know.  I know these things didn't really get hot enough to "bake" anything in, but I ended up melting something plastic inside the oven and filling our soiled laundry- toy- and cat shit-strewn bedroom with acrid smoke, which drew the ire of my father.  He charged up the stairs and, seeing the sign my friend made, grabbed it and started whacking me with it, the blows landing wherever he could reach as I cowered in the corner.

Long story short, he broke the sign on me, so it was just as well that we never actually moved.

But, His Hands

 The hands were what got me worked up the most.  I know they've got to work with what they're given, but surely the embalming process pretty much does all the work.  Am I wrong?  Extreme decomposition can be challenging, I'm sure, but I didn't think this was the case.  When I met two of my siblings and my brother's best friend in the funeral home's parking lot I'd asked for a few minutes on my own before they entered, a request they granted me.  Nervously, I approached the casket, the tip of my youngest brother's nose now coming into view.  As the remainder of his face met my stare I think I let out a breathe I wasn't aware I'd been holding.  They did a great job with his face and hair, and his suit was meticulous.  His hands, though, looked bloated, sausage-like.  "Comfortably Numb" came to mind, that line in the first chorus, specifically.  A sister, breaking our agreement, walked up behind me silently.  "He looks good", she whispered.  I'd cried a little, swiped at my eyes, said, "But, his hands-".

Flashback a few days.  Another brother, oldest of what started out as eight of us, douche of douches, impatient, holier-than-thou, self-important, spouted, "Why should the fact that my brother took his own life inconvenience my employer?".*  Getting back to work was furthest from my mind, but I guess others had different priorities.  We were sitting in a large circle, the funeral director and our mother at the head.  I wondered what mom felt when she heard her eldest spawn blurt such shit, cringed at what the director thought.

Flash forward a week or more- I don't remember.  It's now been about 14 years if I'm not mistaken- the above mentioned sister and I were the only ones who, for closure or whatever the fuck reason, requested to see the photos the police took when they found my brother's body.  It took some nerve but I sat at that desk for what seemed an eternity, staring at the image of him lying on his side, his hands under his cheek, eyes closed, like he'd just fallen asleep.  Which, I suppose, was the case, only he'd had help.

- An excerpt from a memoir that'll likely never be written because I'm a lazy procrastinating fuck.

*Verbatim, I swear, in case this ever ends up in court.  

Marvelous Memories of Youth

When I was a teen in the 70s two uncles- one a pedophile drug addict and the other somewhat normal- ran a night club in a refurbished barn in a tiny town you probably never heard of.  I washed bar glassware, swept up closing time debris and mopped up beer, puke, jiz- whatever all that shit was that gave the concrete floor its texture.  I restocked the beer coolers, helped in the kitchen and even ran the lights once or twice for bands no one ever heard of or ever will.   I guess child labor laws weren't a big deal at the time, and I often stayed until the last patron stumbled out. The Marvelettes- or at least that era's line-up, played one night.  To a typical horndog teen these three beautiful ebony women were untouchable goddesses, and I'll always remember sitting at the bar (yes, at about 15 years old) at the end of the night, mingling with the ladies and their manager and pretending to be an adult.  Suddenly, one of the gorgeous ladies sidled up next to me and asked if I wanted a beer, and signaled the bartender- my uncle- for a bottle of Heineken.  After popping the cap and setting the bottle down on the bar he turned away, and ********** slid the bottle toward the edge of the bar, held it low in front of me and pulled my t-shirt out.  She teasingly slid the beer up my chest under my shirt, poking it out through the neck of my shirt, and had me sip it that way.  Not exactly discreet, I know, and I'm not 100% sure my uncle didn't see what was going on, though he never acted on it.  After another round my uncle made it clear I needed to head home, so I said my goodnights, dug my bike out of the bushes by the dumpster and pedaled the five or so miles home, weaving back and forth over the white line along the edge of the road.  After undressing and climbing into bed I thought back through that night's events and those three beautiful women, which lead to multiple rounds of vigorous masturbation.  

Inspiration

 

The inspiration for "The Objects of My Desire" is a now-closed department store I once worked at in one of many small, crumbling industrial cities you can find scattered throughout New England.  The original store was built and opened in the 1880s, and did, in fact once house a hotel on the upper floors.  My mundane job had me rolling my janitor's cart throughout each floor, cleaning, polishing, vacuuming and removing trash as needed, and I hadn't been at it long before I got severely bored and dared to explore the upper, long-disused floors.  The eeriness of these darkened corridors as I tip-toed through massive cobwebs was chilling, and the brass numbers were indeed still attached above most of the doors.  If ever there was a Twilight Zone moment in my life, this job- and this store- would have to be my #1 choice.  I wasn't there long, and was only part-time, but the store that time forgot was like something right out of the fifties.  The room where I found the mannequins piled atop one another- some fully intact, others missing parts and pieces- was real, but rest assured I did not have my way with them. 

The Objects of My Desire- Conclusion

     The creaky freight elevator, down in the back of the store and out of sight levels off at #4 and comes to a slow, groaning halt.  Carefully I open the inner gate, then raise the outer steel door with the tiny, smudged window and roll my cart onto the dark, wide planks carpeted with decades of dust, pausing briefly to make sure I’m alone.  With the exception of my footprints, it appears as if no one has been up here in years, and the room that contains the mannequins is just down the corridor and around the first corner from the elevator.  The first rooms I pass contain dusty shelving units, jewelry display cases, and old office furniture.  The lighting on these floors is poor, and my skin prickles at the eerie shadows that line the wide corridors. 

     Finally, my destination.  “Hello my friends,” I whisper.  “I’ve come back.”  They are all silent, but I know, deep down, that they’ll be happy to finally have identities.  I pull the things I previously collected from the office supply section out of my cart, and set to work, cutting and taping, and before long they all have their faces on and I grow excited.  Pleased with my work I open the lower storage compartment of my cart and remove the cordless drill and hole saw bit I removed from the maintenance shop in the basement, and grab the bottle of lotion I snatched from Cosmetics off the top of my cart.  I set these aside on a pigeon shit- covered shelf nearby, and walk among my friends, my gorgeous co-workers, laying them down, one at a time, promising them I will be gentle.   

     Only a select few- the ones in the more active poses- will do, since the ones simply standing upright don’t excite me, and these chosen ones are my girls.  After the drill quiets each time, I listen for approaching footsteps, and grow more aroused once I realize I am still alone.  I end up with five, to be exact.  Their names aren’t important.  Four of them, young, smiling, overly made-up, work in different clothing departments, the fifth, I’m not ashamed to admit, is probably in her fifties and reminds me of my mother.  I think she does payroll.  I’m not sure.  They look so beautiful and helpless, staring at me, watching as I undress and reach for the cool, viscous gel that will ease my efforts. 

The Objects of My Desire- part 1

   Light bulbs and bubble wrap.  Mannequins and long-neglected, antique display racks.  These things and more are left to rot in the rooms throughout the dusty fourth and fifth floors.  Items once inventoried, now forgotten, shuffled off to the upper reaches of this century-old downtown relic.  The main display floors, beginning with the sidewalk-level ground floor and up through the third, offer furniture, clothing and accessories no one will ever buy.  Perhaps in previous decades, but not these days.  “How does this place stay in business?” I often ask myself (as many other people do, I’m sure).  During my shifts I see few shoppers.  I roll my janitor’s cart through the different departments, wondering where the paychecks even come from. 

     The upper floors are haunted, I’m sure.  The building used to house a hotel, and the tarnished brass numbers are still mounted over many of the doorways, the smooth, dull finish on the well-worn oak looking much the way it did a hundred years ago.  A downtown staple, Winthrop’s is a destination for old ladies, mostly.  No young person in their right mind would shop here now.  This place is a throwback to another time, a dinosaur.  The few young girls that work here- some hot, some not so- are snotty, and offer better customer service to their cell phones than their customers.  My camera- my phone- fits perfectly in my shirt pocket, well-hidden.  They don’t know they’re the subjects of my project, the objects of my desire. 

     At home, in my little rented room down Main Street, safe from people and trouble, I log onto Walmart’s photo site and create their life-size faces.  All of them.  Even the old ones that have worked there since the forties and fifties, the smelly ones that still douche and wear the perfume that the stinky old ladies wore decades ago.   

Counterpoint III (finis)

Damn fool couldn't even tell me where he put the mail.  For years now, we've set the mail just inside the front door on the side table.  Same.  Damn.  Place.  For.  Years.  I'm not perfect.  I have my own ailments and shit to deal with, but come on.  How much is a woman supposed to tolerate?  What am I supposed to do, pay someone to sit here with him and watch his ass all day? Hire a babysitter?  I mean, it's like living with a child again, and I already aced that exam years ago.   What's next, diaper rash, ointments and thumb-sucking?  I mean, come on.  Been there, done that.  I'm maxed out.  I've exhausted my patience.  I know it's wrong but don't care.  Dan next door's been a godsend. He and I have struck up a relationship and it feels good to get some of those feelings back if you know what I'm saying. If it wasn't for Dan I'd surely lose my shit.  Mama needs a stuffin', and the fuckwit doesn't even have a clue what's going on.  Doesn't know enough to question my "night out with the girls" schtick.  In some ways I guess I should be grateful he's such a feeble-minded idiot.

I can do this.  Make it look natural.  It'll look like apnea or something, or he just simply stopped breathing during the night.  It happens.  I am so done.  I'll wait until he's asleep.

I'll tell you this- it most certainly is not the way it's portrayed in the movies and on television.  He struggled, boy did he struggle.  And it was anything but quick.  It was all I could do to hold the pillow still, and at one point I thought for sure he'd actually overpower me.  It took him, like, five minutes, it seemed.  After he stilled I maintained pressure just to be sure.

I'll let him be until morning.  Say he must've passed in his sleep.  I'll be able to put on a more convincing show after a decent night's sleep.  

Paranoia III

Now I'm really getting fed up.  Even the slightest little slip gets an eyeroll, a groan of disgust , dirty looks.  A day doesn't go by when I apparently say something that doesn't make sense.  What do you want, I get confused easily.  I think she's at her wits end with me forgetting things, almost constantly having to remind me she'd already told me something I don't remember her saying.  So I forgot to make the oil change appointment.  Is it the end of the world that I threw away the invoice for the new furnace we supposedly had installed?  Are library fines really all that dire?  The lamest conversation draws ire and huffs of disgust or something.  I can't always remember her name.  So sue me.  Tonight we had an argument over whether or not we'd already watched a particular episode of some stupid fucking program we were watching.  I got mad and said I was going to bed.  I feel like a child, and want to be alone.  I climb into my bed in my room down the hall from hers.  Yeah, we've been sleeping separately for some time now.  "You move around too much," she squawked.  "And you hog my side".  I swear, she complains more now than she ever has.

I may have dozed for a while, but my door just creaked open and I see her silhouette tip-toeing into my room.  She's holding a pillow close to her chest, and it reminds me of an earlier, more enjoyable time in our marriage when we'd strip each other naked and get all silly and have pillow fights.  Of course, I think it often lead to some good sex, at least for me, and the feather mess wasn't too bad to clean up the next morning.  Maybe there's hope yet.  Maybe she's remembering how much fun we had at one time and wants, really wants to get some of that back.  I'm gonna stay still and quiet and make her think I'm asleep.

Down in the Dark

Wow.  I dug this one out of an old writing folder.  Apparently I wrote it at a bleak time.  I don't remember writing this, honestly.  Not sure what was going on at the time.  It's only about a one minute read. Have a nice weekend.

 I don’t like feel-good.  Feel-good makes me want to cry (out) or, worse, hit somebody.  Far as I’m concerned feel-good is for pussies and losers.  Day after day I’m drilled with goofy, sappy shit about positivity and goodness.  At school, at home, at work- everywhere I look there’s happy sunshine shit being spooned over me like chocolate syrup and I’m an ice cream sundae. 

     If I want something that makes me feel good I’ll create it or surround myself with it.  If I woke up every day and felt “Gee, today I want to be happy,” I’d make myself do it.  What I want is to be left alone.  What I want is to be allowed to feel what I want to feel, not what everybody seems to want to make me feel. 

     This is why, I’ve decided, I don’t much care for people in general.  I was brought up force-fed with feel-good shit day after day after day, and I’ve about had enough.  There’s enough of that in the world-most of which is fake, by the way- to last several lifetimes.  When I get to work everyone is all “Hey, how was your weekend?” and “Well good morning there, sunshine” and it makes me almost want to puke.  It’s as if everyone is medicated, under the influence of any of the overabundance of “happy” pills that are prescribed much too readily. 

     In my world, misery reigns.  In my world sadness, hatred and mistrust are the ruling emotions.  Are these even emotions?  States of mind, more likely.  Oh, imagine if the world was the way I want it to be.  Everyone walked around frowning and miserable.  No one said “hi” to anyone.  They didn’t give each other the time of day.  Imagine that, if you can. 

     Happy makes me sick.  Happy makes me want to throw up.  Happy causes more problems than anything else.  Happy is fake, and is the root of most evil.  Next time one of your co-workers says something frothy and superficial to you try this:  Stare at them, as if they just turned into a leprechaun or something.  Shake your head, maybe even roll your eyes, then just walk away.  Don’t respond verbally. 

     Make them think twice next time, it should.