What the hell is even the point of human relationships
if all we ever do is demonstrate how unfit we are
to spend time with one another on a regular basis?
It’s madness, more than anything,
and chemical compounds that dictate our actions
without our knowledge. That ‘without our knowledge’ bit
really bugs me the most of anything,
since I attempt to figure out things for a living
(well, I wouldn’t call it a living, but
I somehow manage to get (most of) the bills paid
every month). My daily existence is predicated upon
the ability to tell truth from bullshit,
and it’s what has helped me negotiate
the wild waters of humanhood thus far.
So it disturbs me when a person comes along
and knocks me off the tracks, like a goddamn
penny that some toddler put there
because they thought it would be funny.
Not funny, kid. Perhaps experimentation with the species
is necessary, and some folks take circuitous routes
in order to accumulate the necessary data.
Or some people are just assholes.
What the hell am I even typing here?
Is the synthesis of words through keyboard activity
more significant than penning them by hand?
How would one method be preferable to any other
when composing original products of human imagination?
The answer involves an inordinate amount
of wobbling and waffling
between the ideal state of the human being
and the universe we’ve inherited
through no fault of our own.
How many times have you heard that
“through no fault of our own” nonsense
and actually bought it for a second?
What a modern convenience it must be
to forget the struggle of our forbears
while annihilating the only home we were ever given.
Great job, guys.
Sometimes you just need to keep rattling out random strings of words until you hit that one vein of gold ore that you wouldn’t mind blasting and smelting for the cost of three chicken sandwiches a day–though the price of those chicken sandwiches would be in direct opposition to the idea of one’s own self-worth, which tends to be inherently problematic.
On the one hand, I know that chicken sandwiches are really only worth about a few bucks a pop, but if I feel emotionally bankrupt, a double-digit dollar figure may be too hefty a price tag to tack onto my floundering ego (even if imposed as a thought exercise and nothing else).
Some folks prefer to invent misfortunes due to the dearth of such impediments in their naturally-occurring existence. The culmination of all human experience has led us to quarrel with our inner Perfectibillies (those naïve mind-dwellers with the sole objective to get the point across that we used to be a much more resilient bunch in the midst of chaos). We’ve lost our litheness, and it shows.
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The gaidens being offered (ninja or otherwise) must be propelled by moral turpitude, especially if their turpentine-laced morel mushroom business sends morsels to Larry Lou Hu, that guy who said he’d prefer to die in a mysterious way, like by just not waking up one morning. “Some kind of internal organ thing” is the way he always puts it. I can only listen to his moaning for so long before buying him a drink. “Belly up to the bar, Larry Lou, this next one’s on me.” That lifts his spirits somewhat. He sputters on the tequila, no turpentine necessary in this one. Tequila is actually worse for you (no it’s not, are you kidding?). I then reassure him that he really doesn’t want to die, and that there are multiple ways to die with a purpose, like from getting shot in the back while running from the Chicago police, for one. At least then he’ll be a statistic that goes into a more official drawer down at city hall, and he’ll most likely have people instituting candlelight vigils in his honor, helping to further the message that no matter who you are, the police will kill you. Plus, getting shot in the back is an internal malady of sorts, and you can’t see it coming. “Pretty much fits all your criteria, does it not, LL?” He laughs and shrugs it off.
“I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Larry Lou, you crazy bastard, maybe I’ll be the one to kill you, with the sheer number of times you’ve said that to me over the years.”
“Touché, Jerry. Touché.”
What does one type when one has no idea what one should be typing? Also, what kind of work must be made on a normal basis if one is to be considered a writer, or even a basic typist? The answer is likely more rhetorical than actual, but I believe that it exists within a kind of continuum much too subtle for human observation. Now why would I be addressing such a scenario anyway? Seems to be some kind of joke, like this guy just can’t string more than two sentences together without some kind of complaint or existential crisis. And perhaps that’s the point of it; do any of us have the ability to jump into a narrative and string more than two interesting sentences together, keeping in mind that this is right off the bat when the brain still has to get adjusted to some kind of critical thinking for once? I would say the answer to that is a definite probably, which means that we may have an identifiable protagonist without even introducing them to the reader (or at the very least, some kind of character worth tracking in snippets throughout their day). And we would suppose that an audience needs a familiar protagonist in order to soldier on through otherwise incomprehensibly dense prose. But what would make this protagonist compelling? I’d say some kind of scraped knee or questioning of an authority figure would immediately port the audience into the realm of empathy; you really gotta hook them into caring about an amalgam of letters and syntax.
Miranda sold me this veranda one fine Sunday morning, while we were traipsing through the park (minding our own business like it was nobody’s business). She casually broached the subject in between more salient topics–chili mongers and termite hobbyism–as though she hadn’t really been thinking about it that much. Turns out that she’d been waiting in the wings for me to shut up so she could drop her latest deal bombshell on me: a 3/4-size veranda for the price of a small turkey (12 lbs. or less) down at the Froger.
Pancetta salesmen are not too common these days–in contrast to our robust ecosystem of chili mongers–but Miranda and I walked past one that same afternoon just as we happened to be discussing the virtues of veggies. He played it cool like he didn’t hear us, but I know he did (from the twitch in his left eyebrow).