enjoy the journey,
well, what if the journey sucks?
it only sucks because you resist change in your mind,
how can I stop resisting and be fully alive?
ask yourself how do you feel right now -
if you feel sad, or bored, it’s OKAY -
accept being sad, tell yourself ‘I FEEL BORED.’
if you’re happy, or content in all things,
and these words are flowing off the paper like bird wings in the sky,
accept being happy, tell yourself ‘I AM CONTENT.’
who am I?
I don’t know,
that’s the magic
the day of my birth
another year closer to death
Every Which Way But...
What sordid queries! Filth and grime!
A rapiered simian? Shock sublime!
To own my addiction,
(Since this is non-fiction)
...I'd take cock in the car every time.
It pains me to say this, but I'd have to go with the chicken option. I wouldn't enjoy it. It would be like killing a good friend over and over. Dollar-for-dollar, chickens are the cheapest source of animal protein on the planet. They are delicious. They make eggs, which are used to make tons of delicious desserts. I love everything about them, their supple breasts, their tender thighs, their succulent drumsticks. I would never want to hurt the blessed bird of gainz.
But bro, google "orangutan strength". Those things are 5 to 7 times stronger than humans. A sword isn't going to make any difference in a fight against one of those things. While you're trying to figure out which end is pointy, that thing will slam you to the ground and unplug your balls with its teeth. It'll wear your face as a trophy after it tears you limb from limb. A kangaroo would probably be the better animal for this question. They're also way stronger than humans, but a bit less coordinated, so you could almost see yourself winning.
Whereas, if I fight a chicken every day, I'd get used to it, and figure out how to win the fight with minimal effort. And in exchange for that minor inconvenience, I'd get a lifetime of free chicken. It's just common sense.
My Sperm Asserted Itself
First and raw draft.
The narcissist was nice to me today. She initiated correspondence. She had a sort gift offering for me. Nothing too unusual. Her initiating, her being nice, and, more than anything, her apparently being truthful and cluing me in on her plans for the next year was the surprising part. She’s got big plans. Big changes. She wanted to let me know. She was behaving like someone who even cared—a bit.
I’d better watch out.
Still. It was good news, I think. News that strongly implies that she’ll be taking the kids and relocating far away in order to escape this communist-Covidian shithole. I am the only husband in the world that actually WANTS his ex-wife to abscond with the children and flee the state. You go, my kids’ biological mommy. Go! Go! Get them out of here! I don’t want my children raised in a marxist cesspool. She won’t ever cooperate. Narcs never cooperate. But if she just takes them and goes, I will follow as soon as I can. I am her withered anglerfish appendage until the children are a little older. Ha. Things are so marxist-rotten in this region, if it got much worse, I WOULD go without them, male anglerfish or not. The women here are 99% marxist-feminist misandrists. One-third of the masktarded, TV-believing people in this region are STILL DRIVING AROUND WITH MASKS ON IN THEIR CARS. These marxists are lost. They rebelled and spat in God‘s eye one too many times. God has given them over to their government gods.
Eerily, my ex-narc has just about all my values and beliefs. Narcs are hollow vessels. They don’t really have any important core values, other than feeding their narcissism, unless they absorb those values from those around them. No one will ever get “closer” to her than I did, so she apparently absorbed my values. Her values now are very opposite of what they were when I met het. Like virtually every other woman in this area, she used to be something of a marxist new ager type. But not very strong into that even. But now she is rather hardcore into what I believe, and it is what is causing her to hate this government-worshipping place and want out also. She seems to have absorbed my worldview and core values rather strongly for a typically empty-vesseled narc.
I say, Praise the Lord. I was able to protect my children in a most unconventional way: through an empty narcissist’s value-osmosis process.
I like to take it a step further, though, and be a bit more specific and carnal. Just like how I used to brag about why our children look so much more like me than her, I am gonna go ahead and declare that the way she also absorbed MY values, why this narcissist who once parasitized and exploited me is now walking around touting, defending, and espousing MY values, is because of the awesome, overwhelming potency of the sperm inside my manly balls. Yes, Honey, remember how I used to joke and boast about the likeness of our kids to me and not to you? Remember when I would joke to our friends that “My sperm asserted itself!” Damn. I didn’t even know you were a narcissist then. That must have driven you covertly crazy with rage. Oh, but I’m sure you got me back in some secret, petty, plausible-deniability way. Of course you did.
You absorbed my sperm, my ever secretive, ever boastful matri-narc of our “home.” Maybe you were right in denying me sex all those other multiples of times. You felt the overwhelming power. You felt the loss of control to me inside you. The oh-so-few times we ever did it, considering how long we were married. And you narcs CANNOT STAND to give up control and be vulnerable, not even for an instant.
Too late, narc woman. You tried to dominate me a decade and a half, but in the end it was YOU who were dominated.
Yes, prideful, boastful, domineering woman. My sperm asserted itself. It took over your entire belief system. My amateur lumberjack ejaculate knew it would be the only way to protect my children. MY children—did you hear that, narc? Mine. God gave me power over you. By way of my manly balls. You’re beaten, bitch. You just don’t realize it; and it’d probably kill you if you did.
while once a year is certainly more convenient than every time you get in a car, an orangutan would totally beat me up. even if i had a sword, i don't have the guts to stab another living thing, and i do not want a dead orangutan anywhere near me. I would probably end up just running from my car.
on the other hand, a chicken can easily be shoved out of a car. so chicken it is.
A tricky one...
oh this is a tricky one.
"would you rather fight a chicken on a daily basis or an orangutan with a sword once a year?"
as for chicken, i have no sympathy for the birds, they are infibetely more intelligent than a turkey but the are also far superior in taste. i have been around farm animals and have no qualms about a good protein the source. i have never needed to kill a chicken but am fairly confident it would be doable. esoecially if i had a daily encounter with one of these fowl . i have had the 'pleasure' of learning to butcher a chicken when one whole bird was delivered to me during the covid lockdown (at a great expense...). it is therefore quite acceptable for me to be assailed by a chicken on a daily basis. fresh meat is expensive after all.
now we get to the urangutan. here we have a zeugma of sort; i should fight an orangutan with a sword?!
it can mean either being presented with sword withwhich to defend myself from an orangutan.
it could also mean that the orangutan would be the one who shall wield a sword as he takes revenge against my kind.
both of these latter possibilities are not appealing.
i consider the obvious sinister manipulation of orangutans, as they pierce my consciousness with hypnotic precision. they have within them great evil, it is clear, and they shall inevitably triumph over us, when our day will come. having said that, i know all too well the legendary prowess of an adult bull, and know that it equalls only their relentless presecution and torment of all who have wronged or harmed them. to be attacked by an ornagutan is an almost gurenteed death sentence, even if they were never presented with a sword. in the unlikely possibility of survival the attack, it is still very likely that other orangutan shall vow vengence. in the end there will be no escape. better to relinquish unto them all that they demand, and beg for clemency .
on the other hand they will not forgive the fact of choosing the chicken over them...
i conclude with a short list of chicken dishes which i constantly welcome:
sweet and sour chicken.
fricasse of chicken.
chicken cordn bleu,
coq au vin
chicken tajin with couscous
chilli con pollo
green Thai curry chicken
chicken in honey mustard,
chicken in coconut and lime
chicken in coke,
chicken pot pie
chicken 'n dumplings
chicken skewer with pineapple and mango
“If You Work For A Living, Why Do You Kill Yourself Working?”
George Orwell sighed exasperatedly from his perch on a gaudily opaque Cumulus, tweed jacket more askew and bewrinkled than usual, ruffled, like his wing feathers, by the cyclotron effect of spring breezes. "Animal-farmers" was what they were calling themselves. the new craze among the Earthlings. Orwell's harp clanged as he reached into his pocket for some of his dwindling supply of tobacco. (It would be helpful to understand at this juncture, gentle reader, that we are speaking not farm-animal farmers, but of budding intellectuals and their cultish enthusiasm for certain philosophical trends.) They now fell into two distinct groups: Animal Farmers and Animal Right's Activists.
Wat Tyler scoffed in mock-delightitude from a nearby wispy Stratus.
"There now, ye see? Enter into it with the best intentions; free the serfs, nothing unreasonable, and what do you get?"
Orwell raised a commiseratory eyebrow at Wat. "yes I suppose this is what we get for expecting a halfway functional thought-process out of this lot. It's like biting into a delicious chili-pepper sandwich when you've grown the peppers yourself and finding out there's legos inside. Carnassials aren't meant to chew on plastic but they always end up doing it anyway. You make all this effort to put together the perfect metaphor against cultism, and what do you get out of it? a cult! that's what."
"Put out a piece of advice on anything; metermaiding, actuarying, how to avoid growing taller... doesn't even matter how specific the advice is, and soon enough people are on the railroad to wallpaperville; divining the future with shower curtain rings and making tinfoil hats to guard against mind control. They'd be better off in a one-horse-road dirt town. 'Least then they'd have a reason for staying benighted."
Orwell sighed again. "O'well, W'at ya gonna do. Can I bum a light?" George held up his hand-rolled cigarette in the universal sign of brotherly inquiries.
"'Course." Wat returned obligingly, searching his pockets with his tongue out in concentration, and finally producing a disheveled matchbook. (Which he had no idea how he got because matchbooks weren't even invented when he was alive. But every cloud has a silver hole in it's plot.) He lit a match and held it out to George, who puffed his fag alight then held it out to the other cloud-dwelling gentleman. "Don't mind if I do." Tyler accepted, eagerly taking a drag and returning the morsel of friendship to it's owner's stained fingers. The two men sat in silence awhile.
"I've been working on a poem." Wat admitted bashfully. "It's kind of my take on a play between acrostic and alliteration. I've written a few before, but I'm particularly proud of this one because it ignores the starting-letter rule and works phonetically if read aloud. Care to take a squiz?"
"Certainly." Orwell replied, passively intrigued by his cloudly compadre. "I could use a distraction."
Tyler held out the poem on a wrinkled piece of paper. "I'm going to title it UGLY EDITION" he explained.
George began to read, quietly muttering to himself, smirking sometimes through his puffs of cigarette:
Unpalatable ugliness unhorses upset unconventional urchins, unless
Guiled gaurdless; going gratefully groggy: gargantuanly gorgeously gifted gods
Let lower lifeforms languish logically; loving life's lonely longing lullabies...
Yet, yowling yon ubiquitous yogurty yellowbellies, yearning Euripides
Epistemologizes every equine-ebbing epiphany; emptying ethical empathy.
Dystopian diviners don delectably duplicitous dispositions, diluting discernible
Impetus in investigatory impartiality. Incredible, isn't it? Inconceivably intrepid.
To tell Ptolemy's treatise to tosstrot? Trapped tangibly to terrifying tasks; torn
Irretrievably; inexpungible indignation inexorably interfaced in idolatry inclinations.
Only Orpheus's opposite owns optimally ossified homages on omniscience;
Nullifying neophytic knowledges. No narcissist's necrotic nip nears nonsense.
"So... whadya fink?" Tyler asked nervously.
My parents drove us boys across country, and it was at the unusual insistence of my father that we stopped and visited as many states' landmarks and national parks as possible. My mother, as usual, remonstrated. But this time my father was insistent.
"It'll be something they'll remember their entire lives," my father kept saying, and finally it shut her complaining, crazy lips. I thought Dad was overstating things a bit, but we boys were game. It sounded mildly fun and interesting. Sure, Dad. Why not?
You were right, Dad. You were right. Even though the Grand Canyon was kind of, Mehhh, and the Utah Indian-writings-on-the-rocks was kind of, Yawwwn; still, the Balancing Rock in Utah was a bit more my thing, and the Silverado Train in Durango was pretty cool--but Dad, when you drove south, deep into New Mexico, despite all of Mom's bitching and complaining, and when you went way out of our way to go to that fly-infested hamburger stand in Roswell, and then when you drove over to Carlsbad Caverns--Dad, you really gave me something there. For life. You nailed it. Now THAT was right up the alley of your oldest son who didn't take after you. Your nine-year old son who took after the crazy person you saddled yourself with. Your boy with the inverted personality, so unlike your own.
Carlsbad Caverns--it was all inverted. Like me. Everything buried and shockingly intricate and ornate, once you go down and go way in and finally find it. All the good stuff---waaaaay down underground. DEEP DEEP underground.
We had to take an elevator down, it was that far. There was that narrow, dark-paved trail we had to follow, with nothing but a single bar for a handrail on both sides, all along its windiness. There was the giant black hole in the ground off to the side, just a few feet from the trail. The sign said BOTTOMLESS PIT. Doug and I just looked at one another and gulped. Later on that day, back in the car, then back at the hotel, we both kept saying the same wondering, wide-eyed thing: "HOW HAS A KID NOT FALLEN IN THERE? HOW COME WE NEVER HEARD ABOUT IT ON THE NEWS??"
Such a terrifying, tempting speculation just begging to be made.
You had four kids with you, Dad. And the two littlest of them physically hanging off you. How did you do it?
The guide who walked and talked with us, told us about the history and the geology. Dad, you had me there. You really really hit a home run for taking me there. All of those stalagtites and stalagmites. Huge rock icicles going up and coming down. All those underground cathedrals. So profoundly beautiful, yet so utterly scary. And then when they turned out the lights. Then turned them back on. The guide said that that's how it looked for Jim White, the cowboy guy who discovered the caves back in the cowboy days. How he used to let people down into the caves, down into a hole, in nothing but a basket and some rope. With Jim White holding onto the rope, letting folks down there who paid him some money so they could see what he saw. But they'd have nothing but a flashlight. They could only see a tiny, little bit of these huge underground cathedrals back then. Most of these astoundingly varying colors, these shockingly gnarled shapes, like another world, upside down and alien and all covered over with a clear, shiny frosting--those folks in the basket could only see a teeny, tiny bit of it with their flashlight. But it must have been overwhelming nonetheless. What little they could see of it, the vast, strange hugeness they couldn't even begin to see but knew was there. It must have been overwhelming. They would have surely wished that they could see further into that darkness, see more of this fantastical underground world; but they must have been scared out of their minds at the same time.
There was nothing but a guy holding onto them by a rope up there!
When we got back to the surface finally, took the modern elevator all the way back up, we stopped in at the gift shop. There were shiny gem rocks and candy and fudge; but all I wanted was that book, that book about the history of this place—about Jim White back in the cowboy days, how he did it with the bucket, lowering people down there. It was way beyond fascinating and oh-so very scary, just to read the book.
That whole place was fascinating and scary. Every inch of it. Each and every ginormously decorated glistening-rocky cathedral, up-and-down icicle made of rock. It was almost unbelievable that it was THERE, in THIS world, that it was REAL and you could find the several inconspicuous entrances to it on the MAP.
The years went by.
It's true. I took after Mom because, for better or for worse, I turned out to have her personality type--just without the accursed, family-destroying personality disorder. I think. My erstwhile Love might consider that I took a piece of even that with me. I couldn’t argue with her.
So I'm an INFP. A miner of emotions. That's what we INFPs are. We spelunk emotions and map them out. It’s what we do. No wonder I fell in love with that amazing underground place as a boy; those gigantic caverns with all that underground, intricate, phantasmagorical beauty hiding so far below the surface. It was like a geological metaphor for myself.
We INFPs, our real selves are deep inside; and over the course of time, with the dripping, coursing fluid of daily human interaction, we map out intricate emotions in our heads. Yes, emotions. We seek to understand and to master them, the way some people do with logic. We deal with emotions that way. We mine for them, we analyze them, then we build intricate maps of emotional comprehension in our INFP heads. We spend our mental lives mapping out the full range of human emotions. We do it analytically, cerebrally. But they're still emotions. They look and feel and sound like emotions. We seek to comprehend them all. To know and understand what they all FEEL like. It is estimated that INFPs are only about 3% of the population. (Some say there are more of us than that; I say they are smoking crack.) If you are an INFP, when you write a letter to someone, or share a song with them, or share some song lyrics, or share with someone anything meaningful to you that you think might be meaningful to them, then that little, emotionally enjoyable thing you do in your own head, when you try to "put yourself in their shoes" and try to conjure up and imagine the EXACT emotion you think they will be feeling upon receiving and deciphering that piece of meaning that you sent to them--that's a part of our INFP emotion mapping that we do. If INFPs are not the only type that does that, they CERTAINLY are the ones that do it the most, and easily the most acutely.
I like to think that I am a gifted emotion mapper. And I probably am. But I know an INFP that is far more gifted than me. I have been in love with her for a number of years. She is so much more gifted than me, though. She has known that we both have loved each other for even longer. A very long time. In fact, she knew right from the start. She is an emotional GENIUS. I have had to come to this conclusion.
And I'm in awe.
Today I heard some news, or thought I heard some news, that she was in trouble. That she was ill. I was reading between the lines of something that sounded like she was really sick. Thank God that I was mistaken.
But WHAT IT DID TO ME.
I was suddenly in a basket, handed a flashlight, and plunged deep, deep into darkness. I was so, so far down under the surface. I didn't even know that this great cavern was here inside of myself, was a part of MY OWN map, all this time. I had a flashlight that gave me tiny, little glimpses of this vast, majestic, terrifying, boundlessly beautiful, frighteningly unfathomable underground network of intricate, glistening cathedrals of love for her that I didn’t know were there, didn’t and could never in this flesh comprehend the vastness and the richness of this system of cathedrals upon chambers of emotions.
I was in over my head with nothing but the Man upstairs holding me by a rope.
I was terrified.
I was caught by onrushing awe.
Overwhelming, monumental, dreadful, onrushing spasm of unmitigated awe.
Of what I feel for her.
And it's been here underground, underground on this map all this time.
Underground, inside of me.
I needed to write the words.
to remind me why I had to let you go.