A brief spike in traffic

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

Bizarre dream

WARNING: MATURE, VIOLENT CONTENT.

Had a dream last night where a gang of young punkasses stole a handgun belonging to me. The dream ended with me cutting one of them repeatedly with a machete, including burying the blade inches deep over his right eyebrow. He died with his eyes open.

To make it stranger, I then dropped the weapon and pressed my palms together in the perfect image of praying hands and asked Lord Jesus Christ to forgive me for my sins.

I didn’t consider it a nightmare because when I woke up I had the day off. Also, spiritual progress is typically signified by violent dreams. The most harmless, soft-spoken girls in the meditation group would dream that night–after a full day of meditation–about mowing down people with an Uzi.

I’m not reading anything into it, but I did receive an odd piece of junk mail today, advertising for a good luck cross. Included was this image, which immediately made me think of the old, OLD comics’ joke about how thrilled Christ returning to earth would be to see his followers wearing crosses.

Any Spirit Being is always welcome to get my ass out of a jam. Amen.

Never fight tears

If you’re close to crying, do so: tears release chemicals, including natural painkillers.

If you don’t feel like crying, don’t go here. You really have to be tortured by your own thoughts to go that way, to hit loved ones with the force of a bomb that won’t kill but put them in Hell all the same.

A few of those left behind, shell-shocked and numb, dare to imagine the suffering that drove the beloved dead to finally act.

All of the the dead look like anybody you might meet. They are.

After shutting down the cursed computer I was ready for sleep. My eyes were sticky red bulbs.

Giant white dogs the size of small bulls chase me around a massive supernetwork of highways spread across a steroidal Los Angeles.

I kill one of the dogs, slashing its muscular belly open. It sprays barrels of blood as it corkscrews downward between still more freeways, stacked in infinite levels. Some fat fucking son of a bitch like a White sumo wrestler appears, yelling for the authorities. He wants to kill me to avenge the dogs or himself. I don’t know if it was his dog but more dogs lurk out there, seeking revenge.

Wherever I try to hide, children recognize me, laughing and asking innocent questions about the dogs. I answer their questions, angrily amazed I’m stupid enough to be stalled.

I merge onto a 15-lane freeway, making my escape on a scooter as worthless as the Faggio from GTA. It won’t go faster than 35 as white dogs thunder after me down the busy freeways.

I blink, teleported to another safe house, a small apartment…

I woke up before I had to wake up, an hour to go. I can’t figure out how an hour of sleep can be made to feel like a steak-eating contest.

A few hours left before work. The real nightmares always begin with sunlight.