Category: Observation

So Busy

Crap dang it, now I can’t think of anything all of a sudden. Oh well, guess it can’t be helped in my current predicament. It’s not so much of a predicament as a predicate-a-mint type of situation, where the essence of mint is completely ubiquitous around the entire cosmos for everyone to enjoy, whether they like it or not. Crap dang it.

So what am I supposed to do now? Who the hell knows? I sure don’t. That’s why I’m asking myself. Maybe if I ask myself and put some kind of deadline on the thing, I can stall the inevitable existential pain associated with extreme boredom.

But you know what? I’m sick and tired of being asked so many questions all the time. It seems like every day I’m getting badgered and/or peppered with at least several dozen inquiries, and my god does it take a toll. I’ve been meaning to have a serious talk with myself, really get the whole thing straightened out once and for all, but I’ve just been so busy.

That ‘Without Our Knowledge’ Bit

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.

Great Job

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.

Perfectibillies

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.

Very Reasonable

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Let’s face it. You’re all going to need to blow your hard-earned money somewhere, so we’ve prepared a world-class experience tailored to your every shopping need. Sound too good to be true? As of last night, you would have been correct. But as of 02:00 GMT today, our interactive holographic technicolor shopping center has just been brought online, and you can waste your cash from anywhere around the globe, 24 hours a day!

Never again will you be lacking an excuse to spend beyond your means! That’s the CI3® guarantee! We won’t even waste your time pretending that the proceeds of your purchases contribute to worthwhile causes, unless you deem stuffing our pockets while we pay no income tax to be worthwhile (we certainly do). Frequent shoppers can apply for our CI3® credit card (the Ci3CC®). There are no rewards or cash-back gimmicks, no bait and switch offers–just a very reasonable 32.99% APR (rate increases to 65.99% after first missed payment, and rises an even 30% with each subsequent late remittance).

Larry Lou Hu

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.”

Amalgam

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.