- Reality: "You know people think you're insane, yes?"
- Dreamer: "Do you think I put a curve in my cock by masturbating too often?"
- Reality: "You're not listening to a word I say, are you?"
- Dreamer: "I think I still have a bit of pot, do you think that violates my sobriety? I mean, it's herbal and all natural and whatever."
- Reality: "I don't know why I bother."
- Dreamer: "You're not bothering me – much. Anyway maybe it's all just my way of deluding myself as a means of protecting my psyche and I'm actually just a very simple creature feigning intellect to make up for my lack interest in the world I do not understand and I'm really just as shallow as the next person with all the fragility and flaws of every other individual and what I'm really doing is just one big show to satiate my need to placate to an audience that I don't really know and it's all just a means of finding the intimacy that I lack. Or – maybe I just don't give the slightest of fucks what you think and I'm really just living my life the way I see fit and would prefer to be heard before I die even though I don't want to be remembered. Fuck, it could be both or neither for all I care. And I still love you even though you don't understand me.
- Reality: "Now you're just fucking with me, right?"
- Dreamer: "I don't know, am I?"
- Reality: "You can run all you want but I will catch you, eventually."
- Dreamer: "It's not my fault you can't keep up."
- Reality: "I catch everyone in the end."
- Dreamer: "Keep dreaming!"
You know, it’s kind of a fucking drag that people feel the need to blow each other to smithereens over ideology rather than just blow each other, quite literally. I mean you could say that things like the Crusades or other such bullshit is history but it’s not. It’s still thriving and alive and well, well, nearly alive and mostly blown to pieces but I digress. And it’s all over god and peace and who’s on first and what have you. To think that all it ever took to get to get some prime real estate in the supposed afterlife was just a few explosions and blood and gore and everyday apathy.
In the name of God I smite you. God smites his enemies. You are mine enemy. Of course I am I’m a fucking heathen. Oh, and by the by, you look really cute in that funny garb you wear. Oh, and I just got a call from the man upstairs and he said that you’re all doing a bang up job, literally. She also said that you’re kind of missing the point in believing in something greater than one’s self and that the true answer to eternal happiness is between your legs. Oh, and they also said that the score is still zeros across the board. Talking to god, you know you’re just talking to yourself, right? That’s just fucking crazy, really, truly, tis, you’re an utter lunatic, you are.
You know, Jesus of Nazareth was possibly a homosexual, I mean think about whom else would keep the company of only other men? And there’s nothing wrong with it whatsoever, after all was it not that very same man that said something to the effect of something about not throwing rocks, well I figure we’re all having a rocking good time and everybody is getting stoned. Not that it would matter; people lionize, canonize, vaporize and martyr other simple souls all the time. In all fairness I believe that Jesus probably did exist and he was probably a very gifted rabbi, but, I also believe that he was just a human being with all the human frailties of human nature, I believe that all the cast of characters in all works of elegant fiction are very real, but, at the end of the day that’s all they really are, just stories of human beings and human nature, allegorically or otherwise, and nothing magical at all. But, if you need to believe in fairy tales and parables and psalms and scriptures and the like then you might also be interested in the works of J.K Rowling because as far as I’m concerned they’re pretty much written in the same vein with equal parts whimsy and magic and whatever. In fact maybe each religion should employ the hand of Ms. Rowling to touch up their texts as to further our decent into this great divide that is always ever widening.
Not to let off the other shadowy factions off from the blade of this hapless bladed prose of mine. However; maybe it’s women that should overthrow it all. One common occurrence in most structured religion is that women always seem to get the short end of the stick. Maybe women should found their own religion in which race, age or anything is not a factor as they lead a coup to topple us silly, silly boys and our silly, silly, wars. Don’t trust any religion that belittles women and renders them nothing more than subservient creatures for breeding and bleeding. Any man that says that women are inferior has yet to meet a woman. Deliciously delirious creatures, they are. And man could only hope to one day harness the power of the pussy. If we could only figure how to do this, we’d be a true force to be reckoned with, at least for one week out of every month. Women are life, get over it and stop being such a whiny little bitch about it all, oh, and ask one for a tampon to dry your chauvinistic tears and go crawl back into the stone age where you belong you knuckle dragging, numbskull, Neanderthal. And there it is, men versus women shirts versus skins and everybody fuck everybody and everyone for themselves and everybody is their own deity and their own god, after all who the fuck do you think it was you were talking to this whole time?
Description: 5’10”, 190-200 lbs, average build, light brown hair, dark brown eyes. No scars or distinguishing marks. White male.
Crime Committed: Profiled for photography and being an artisan.
One arrived before the other.
Description: 5’11”, 170-180 lbs, athletic build, dark brown hair, hazel eyes. No scars or distinguishing marks. White male.
This is the note that I took while I was profiling my profilers.
Day fifty and I don’t give a fuck if I meander and have a propensity for punching air or stepping in shit and not giving a shit and I hold open doors for beautiful girls if only to see them smile and believe in superheroes and can fly and am constantly tripping over my talented tongue, so I meander, so I’m something of a beautiful car wreck that survived a beautiful car wreck, so be it. My stomach is empty and I am choking down smoke as my stomach is empty and my left ankle is numb because I laced my left shoe entirely too tight. I’m happy, really, truly, I couldn’t fucking be more elated with things as they stand face down in the fucking dirt and the soil of travel, even though I might just turn it all on its figurative head if only to get a better view and further my vision of beguiling blindness. I inhale shallowly and spit out the toxic air from my toxic mouth and just bask in all of it as I listen to Nick Cave and think about masturbating as I metaphysically masturbate my deep waters as my never-ending, derailed and smoldering train of thought continues to tip end over end and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The hours are blending into one another seamlessly. My world is a careless collage of cancer. The morning is here and I’m still alive, I’m still kicking, I’m still sitting here watching my enemy, vile fucking sun, rise. It’s almost beautiful, it’s almost elegant, it’s almost peaceful, I shudder this all away and it flutters off into nothingness. I gaze upon my sleeping beauties, all three of them, my two earthly angels and our new kitten that has yet to have a name. I rub the scruff about my face and I mosey on over to the bathroom and that awful track lighting and I am met with my own eyes in the mirror. What it is I think about is quite simple, I just wonder if I am wrong and if everything I say or think or do is all a lot of nothing and if one day a net will drop over me and I will be hauled off to some sterile building with sterile air and sterile people and just sit day after night and just play with my penis and treat it as a very small sword and slash at any passers-by.
It’s exactly noon, more or less, and I lost a day somewhere. I check my pockets and check between the filth lining the tiny loveseat in my bedroom and come up with nothing more than air and pubic hair. I pick up the phone and select the numbers, have a very brief, very pleasant, very perplexing conversation with a voice on the other end of the line, I hang up the phone and just let it sit on air. I wake up, I can’t figure if I missed the appointment or not, after this, I can’t figure out if I missed my court date or not, I close my eyes, I wake up.
I’m making eggs, the shells are cracked and I’m adding the milk. I grease the pan and use the spatula to evenly brush the oil amid the skillet. At my back are two lovely lovelies chirping chirps at one another. I’m regaling them of stories of days past and the tone of their voices tells me to continue. I can feel the skillet getting hot in my hand. I let go, the handle, and begin making the toast. The pepper is still missing and I grab the seasoning salt which I splash, lightly, over the eggs as they become light and fluffy. I use the spatula to guide the eggs onto two plates and I retrieve two sodas out of the refrigerator before I enter the living room which lies but a few listless steps away.
Again, I’m driving when I should not be, even more so when I am in the state of mind that I am in, I sniffle about the air and blink my eyes. I probably shouldn’t be wearing white. White is not agreeable with the way my life chooses to lead me. I try, I feign, gathering the shattered shards of my thoughts to no avail. As I take a photograph I feel the truck near the guardrail over the hump of the bridge. The vehicle steadies itself on its accord and I play passenger behind the wheel.
I’m literally being accosted by the authorities for fancying myself an artisan. He keeps thrusting his questions as he rapes my calm. His hair is light brown and closely cropped but delicately so, not like the other police officers, the ones new to the job, anyhow. I hand him a card with my name on it and he reads it into a device on his shoulder. I’m literally being assaulted for taking a photograph on a play pony. As his inflection drips with disdain and caution I do not fight the urge to not brace my words with care. I antagonize him, I rattle his cage some, when he voices his opinion aloud I retort with expediency and my words are rife with a ragged rebuttal. His eyes cross at my retorts and I continue to make a bad situation worse as a child walks past with a balloon. I had just arrived here not but a minute ago. I already know it was the mother in the green sedan with two teenage girls in tow who is the cause of this, that and cowardly intolerance, looking how I look, I figure it’s always inevitable that moments such as this will occur. As I tell him that I am taking down his badge number he chortles as yet another squad car pulls up behind the car which stopped me. Now there are two police officers in front of me. The first copper smugly asks me if I would like his partner’s badge number as well, I cut off his thought, mid thought, as I chuckle that I already am as I am now standing just over the edge of what should be this one’s personal space as I jot down a second badge number. The first cop is in his early thirties; he has light brown hair and dark brown eyes and weighs roughly one-hundred and ninety pounds. The second cop has dark brown hair and hazel eyes and weighs roughly one-hundred and eighty pounds. Neither is wearing wedding bands. And so it is I am profiling my profiler as we await the return of my warrant check.
She’s so fucking beautiful. I had only seen her feet as the movie was already playing and the lights were dimmed down oh so low when I had arrived at the theater. The film has ended, a superhero movie, and I’m just leering at her lustfully as my eyes eye her soft flesh and her agonizingly beautiful face and her dark, sleek mane of beautiful brown hair. I turn and stumble forward only to stop and hold open the door for her and her grandparents. She looks to be about twenty-three, we meet eyes again as she passes and I let the door fall behind her even as more people are pouring out of the theater. She turns once more and we exchange a brief moment of wanton whimsy before she leaves. I hit the bathroom, hard, and piss away my piss before washing my unsteady hand. I flee the theater and I know which vehicle she’s in, I stand on the lip of the open truck door and continue to lust her longingly. My head turns as the automobile carrying the beauty sails down the empty street bathed in orange light. I breathe out.
I’m in my bedroom and my shoes are still laced and my stomach is empty and this cigarette has stopped burning a minute ago. I just sit here and contemplate spilling my seed and spilling my seed through my prickly prose as the night swallows me whole. My thoughts keep flickering and flashing like a television which was on the receiving end of a very expensive laptop and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I click open my lighter and snap it shut the very next moment, I click it open once more and I am burning away.