It’s Too Late

I have no fans, and that’s fine with me. Much has happened since I last picked up the keyboard for more regularly blogged bullshit. As filmed, the story would be minor happy events in an overall tragedy as opposed to some bloodless low points in a comedy. Sounds about right for almost everyone.

I’m slowly dying of some rare blood disease that damages only the kidneys. Really, I wish my kidneys would fail already. I would quietly collect SSD and get dialysis 3 times a week if it meant not having to ever work again, facing the ugliness of the human race every fucking day.

There are still a few good things left in life:  Oreos, cannabis, taking a shit, internets, reading history, jacking off. There are even hookers that will come to your door!

Contrary to what salesfolk are forever claiming, there is a time when nothing you do or try or buy will save your sorry ass. That time is called “It’s Too Late” and for me, it’s already here. I never try to tally up the reasons I have to live another day, there really aren’t any. I’ve abandoned this life…the mp3 player is still counting the song from both ends but the music stopped long ago.

I told the Guru I HATE God, but I told him in an email.  No response.  That was years ago.  When he does answer it’s usually with, “Have you tried meditating?”  He’s not being a smartass.  God is.

Sadly, there is no Satan to worship. Don’t matter who you cry out to; no god—good or evil—returns messages.

I want to get black t-shirts made with IT’S TOO LATE right across the chest in bright yellow. More than any demon, those words frighten people, with truth.

Without ham or hope

Show me a poet and I’ll show you a shit. –A. J. Liebling

Five after midnight, 77 degree Florida winter. I’d finished manually saluting a beautiful fat woman in a norpographic video and the computer was off.

Now the machine is on again. Something won’t let go and from what little is known It’s not Great Art.

One of my previous mini-poems haunts me with its poor quality. I should destroy it, wipe it off the blog. I was insane with grief when I wrote it, tugging in desperation on the jacket of the ghost of Richard Brautigan, a writer I love whose work couldn’t outlive the infamy of his suicide.

Brautigan:

I Feel Horrible. She Doesn’t

I feel horrible. She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
the house like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.

My head aches like a pressurized cabin.

I keep forgetting to breathe which is good: breathing is a filthy habit.

Things will get worse before they get worser. Heh.

Whatever It is that started this idiotic post is now gone. It slunk out of here with no profound insights and I can yawn again, tired as tar. It’s almost 0100.

The highlight of the evening was jacking off to the norp vid of the sexy fat woman. It always is on these disgusting warm nights without ham or hope.

All of China Trembles in Fear

Another treasure from the dollar store. This fine-crafted miniature statue frightens the hell out of the Chinese wage slaves who mass-produce it.

Ceramic Eagles of Hope and Freedom haunt their sinister communist dreams.

Little do the Red Yellows know here in the USA this is known as a “gag gift”.

Nobody tell them, either!

Take a break from pessimism

How much pain they have cost us, the evils which have never happened. –Thomas Jefferson

…it has never been my way to bother much about things which you can’t cure.
– Mark Twain – A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

I watched too many political vids on youtube tonight.
The idiocy, ignorance, paranoia, doomsaying, etc. was just too much for my tender sensibilities.

Although I cannot claim to rising above feeling anxious and threatened by the many ominous challenges of the future (Chinese world dominance, terrorists with nukes, collapse of the dollar and following right behind it like a booby prize in a box of Fruit Loops, the dreaded Amero) I’m trying to realize on a conscious level that all these macro problems can go fuck themselves. Like Jefferson wrote, most of these things never happen, and when they do, the terrifying tiger behind the door often turns out to be a kitten.

So then there’s hope:

…it is a blessed provision of nature that at times like these, as soon as a man’s mercury has got down to a certain point there comes a revulsion, and he rallies. Hope springs up, and cheerfulness along with it, and then he is in good shape to do something for himself, if anything can be done.

– Twain – Connecticut Yankee…

Although I can’t prove it, in the frequent absence of hope the human will still abide, because no other creature is interested by half in seeing what happens next.