The Sewing Machine, Thunderstorm Jungle Adventure: A Thrilling Child’s Tale from the Mind and Cognitive Convolutions of a Semi-Deranged, Wholly Unimaginative Psychonaut Hailing Far and Wide From The Croatian Outback

Set in the jungles of Brazil or a strip of land off the 5 freeway near Stockton or someplace else entirely. I take creative liberations or ridiculous misconstructions depending on the date and time. I like to make up words and the meanings those words will ultimately connote. All in all, these words are fictional; my life is completely make-believe. I do not exist, not circumstantially and certainly not realistically. This is ghostwriting in the truest sense. Boo!

*

Night makes it sound so ordinary. It wasn’t night but it certainly wasn’t day. Day is not scary; things that make the gooseflesh appear on the skin of your arm do not traditionally happen in the day. There is too much light for daytime to be scary. No, this was blackness, a blackout, the absence of a sun, the way it might look to sunbathe on the surface of Neptune. The sun was only as bright as a distant star then, warming us not at all, and providing nothing but shimmery aesthetic beauty for us to look on at and indulge in kind.

I was having one of my usual sleepless, horror-filled nights where I imagine myself a corpse rotting in a heart-shaped coffin and all the people around me are also corpses and I get this sick sort of rapid heart beat that makes me viscerally hate the idea that I was ever born because I could die, I might die, I will die at some point and that moment right before death scares me more than the possibility of a hundred overdoses, a thousand rejections from guys that are too hot for me, a million daggers to my metaphorical, under-emotional, drug-calloused heart muscle. I fear death more than lizards, more than the number 117, more than my exoskeleton shattering to pieces on an unforgiving asphalt after being catapulted off the Empire State Building, which is only coincidentally like 14 stories shorter than that fateful number. I’ve been on top once.

Of course I realize most of those things listed neatly above would result in a type of death, here or there, through heart attacks or the sheer will not to live, to unlive in fact, after something so horrific has assaulted my carefully constructed, wholly not invulnerable, pinpricked and poisoned mind. But I cannot unlive, not at this point and not anymore. My parents ripped that privilege away from me with selfish indifference to my own wants and whims when they conceived me and made the decision to birth me. Narcissists!

I can wish easily now that I was never born, but suicide is so repugnant, so utterly despicable that I will never entertain the thought of it. Now that I have life flowing through my veins in the manifestation of blood and cells, I cannot and will not snuff it out. I am stuck here to live it out (even though I wish for the never was and the never will be), because the idea of death is just so viscerally gruesome that I cannot bear the idea of it. Now that I am alive, the only thing that I can rationally wish for is the impossibility of immortality. And that is a huge caldron of disappointment in and of itself because unlike Tuck, I have no magic elixir that will make me, and the people I care for, eternally eternal.

That was a tangent that I indulged initially because I thought it would be less reprehensible than one stuck in the middle or toward the end of this hasty and un-thought-out story. In actuality, I am here in this forum now to tell that story, an accounting of something that might have been a dream, or a reality laced in dream material, or maybe the ill effects of narcotics, or maybe a slathering of both those things laying waste to my mind as those things are wont to do, telling me what I should think or what I should feel as if I am nothing more than an animal, nothing more than a mess of tissues like an organism that is ruled by a science that I don’t understand.

But I listen because I must. Now, where was I? Yeah the story, of course.

There we were surveying the property, a property that I did not recognize but one that I got the distinct feeling that the others with me recognized quite well. I should have probably recognized it, but I didn’t. By then the night was over and it was day, early day, past twilight and into the gripping, rising temperature of the summer sun probably around ten o-clock in a place that resembled my California. I’m pretty sure it was Los Angeles; it could have been San Diego.

The sun was out and the sky was blue, almost brilliantly so. It didn’t make sense, at least insofar as I was there, following directly behind them, watching them take account of the storm, the storm that would end up being legendary, the storm of the night before that was gone now without a trace from the sky. I categorize it as legendary only because tales of it would be told many times in the future within the confines of my extended family. And the story over the years would always morph into an acceptable distortion of what actually happened. Which is basically as follows.

My father was there, following cats as they ran around sniffing and investigating things on the ground. I think for the most part my father likes to watch them explore as he does, even knowing that they are hunting different things. They hunt lizards, which is both good and bad in my opinion. I like the fact that they are cutting down on the lizard population because lizards are utterly reprehensible and deserve to die brutal deaths, but it’s bad because they typically bring back the carcasses of said lizards, which on some occasions aren’t so much carcasses as full on, still alive organisms in the shape of lizards and they hide under the treadmill, my treadmill, and attack me at the most inopportune of times. So mostly I hate cats, and lizards, and anything else that I find aesthetically displeasing and that outwardly wishes to cause me physical harm.

My mother was there too, surveying the property with us, and it was odd because she is not known for being outdoorsy and certainly not known for surveying property. But she was there too, investigating alongside me, intrigued almost unnaturally by the cats that she typically tends to abhor, making me feel like I have been the ghost in this story all along, and not some other indefinable character. Like me, my mother tends to be partial to bunny rabbits because they are cute and altogether better than dogs and cats combined. So it was weird for her to be out there watching cats. But I suppose it was also weird for me to be there. The whole scene was weird and gave me a distinct feeling of unrest.

The ground was uneven, filled with sunken and overflowed gopher holes, long since abandoned, and I was finding it harder and harder to keep up without turning my ankle and causing some lifelong troubles to assail me. Everything was dirty, grassy, and muddy, and I don’t like the idea of dealing with a mess. My mother diligently followed my father around, who was diligently following cats around, inside and out of turns, holes, and fences. I didn’t like the setting, not one bit. And I had no idea how I found myself there.

It was a jungle, a swampy forest with fallen trees, some vines and fence boxes to climb upon and ponder about. How did those fence boxes come to fall in this place? Where did they come from? Did the storm carry them distances? Did it plant them there after a long journey? Their presence confused me. I seemed to be the only one who found them distinctly out of place. I’ve never known fence boxes to be constructed and carried by storms.

My father began to yell at the cats for going too fast and getting lost from his view. He hates when cats get lost because it makes him nervous that they will become coyote fodder. It’s not an unrealistic fear; we have provided the coyotes with a good amount of cat fodder over the years. Unintentionally of course.

I started listening to my mother who, by the nature of the conversation, seemed to have been talking, talking, talking, about something that I was only beginning to take note of. She was bragging about how she was sewing during the thunderstorm the night before, the unyielding thunderstorm that poured all this rain onto the property and turned it into a jungle, a playground of ropes, vines, and fallen trees. And fence boxes.

Apparently Karen and some of her friends were asking my mother questions about her sewing feats. They likened her to batman. How did you sew in the midst of a thunderstorm, they asked her interestedly. Weren’t you scared of electrocution? Did your project turn out despite the horrendous conditions? Those types of questions. I wasn’t there during the interview but my mother was bragging about her conquests at the time we were surveying the property. She thought herself to be a minor celebrity. I found the whole thing silly and confusing but I refrained from saying so. I wasn’t even sure that I existed in the same way that everyone else did.

She continued to brag heavily about her amazing feat and my father continued to follow cats around. It was rather ordinary in its extraordinariness. My mother really dug the idea that these kids were looking up to her and her accomplishments with sewing and doing it during a thunderstorm and all that. I can understand the feeling but I’m not sure I understand anything about those few minutes of time. I said nothing and kept following the madness.

“Hey, be careful!” my dad shouted at my mom, sounding like an authoritarian. He was yelling at her because it is “rough terrain” and he thought that she was going to fall and twist her ankle or something. He constantly worries about her overdoing things. She is an over doer. She was climbing all over those fence boxes, getting up on top of them and looking around, trying to locate cats on the property. I don’t even know why she cared to locate felines, they are so ridiculously unimportant in the big scheme of things. I would be on her side completely if she was trying to locate bunnies.

Regardless, my mother continued to climb from one fence box to another, weird little obstructions that appeared to have been dumped by the storm or maybe something else entirely. But these obstructions in the shape of beautiful fenced in cubes had no effect upon her whatsoever. She seemed to have no problem scaling, mounting, and extinguishing them as if they were nothing at all, as if she were Mario or Luigi, wild and capable plumbers, sewer-dwellers of the most unique kind. I was awestruck as I remained on the ground with my father, hands in my pockets, looking on at the scene developing before us. Those boxes were never there before but they were there now. At least, I never observed them or noted them accordingly.

The cats had a much easier time navigating the storm-tangled mess than my mother. My father begged for her to stand down and stop “screwing around” as he likes to put it. He doesn’t follow the cats as closely because he thinks they will return to the property at nightfall; he has different thoughts about my mother entirely. I believe my mother follows the cats out of a selfless concern for their wellbeing and to ensure their continued prosperity for my father’s sake, as I would do for circumstantially the same reasons. She followed them that day and climbed upon the fences to search for them probably because she wanted to prove she could keep up with the hyperactive cats, explore the crevices and negotiate the twists and turns as well as an agile feline could. I’m not sure why such a feat holds such importance to her. But it clearly did that day.

This is where the story turns, mostly because it is at this point that I must make up the rest in my deluded mind, for my dream was rudely interrupted by Tegan, herself waking up or faking it, lamenting her unhappiness and relaying her night of utter displeasure, for the state of that hotel room we as a family stayed in that night -- Tegan, our mother, our father, and me -- somewhere in the Brazilian rain forest or off the 5 freeway. It was truly a nightmare of sorts, the grim circumstances of the trip, the loud and un-precise snoring that assailed her right away and assailed me much later on, later when I could almost think to acknowledge the sun creeping over the hill, the hour as five in the morning. I have recovered, but barely because I took the first shift. But I will not bore this recounting with such details.

I still wonder and wonder I should, had Tegan made it through the night unscathed as I cannot now claim? Or had she suffered the same fate as myself, diligently and without societal regard, trekked on through the burroughs (unrelated) of self–reflection that others ignore, to this place of unrestrained and unasked for notoriety, to answer (or at least something that resembles answer) all the questions we seek by virtue of being human and unintelligent when it comes to such things. How did the death we had come there to mourn actually happen? How could it all make sense?

There I was, in a shitty hotel room, in an unknown land, somewhere in and between Brazil and California, a place I cannot now describe. But I was there, wondering how boxed in fences have anything to do with my mind, except in the clear-cut and literal sense. Why was I there? Could this ultimately become my fate? Or something else entirely? These are answers I’ll never be able to have.

I do know that I was in and around the area for a funeral, a memorial, for a person that I knew but not well, a person I should have spent more time with but didn’t, a person that was by all accounts a really awesome and fantastic person in all senses and definitions of the word. I was simply awestruck by the people, the stories, and the sheer number of lives that she touched in a positive way. Is it a trade-off in the end? Can we only be great in life to die tragically in the end? Is it only those who suffer in life who can make it to peaceful deaths? I loathe the idea of belonging to either category.

I’d like to end this pointless story on a positive note but I have never known positivity in twenty-six years. That may seem outrageous but it is in fact the truth. Positivity in its purest sense has always eluded me. But in closing I will say this and I will fool myself into thinking it is revelatory because that is what all egoists with narcissistic personality disorder might do. The present is and will always be the time of our lives, the time where legends are born and the time for revelry, because right now we are young, we are in our twenties and capable of such unrelenting, unredeeming, self-indulgent things that no one else could possibly imagine, accepting poisonous playthings into our veins with eager disregard, drinking ridiculous intoxicants into our stomachs and accepting tangled stimulants into our nasal cavities, like we are invincible, invulnerable, and incapable of the mortality that the rest of the world falls prey to everyday, because we are different, because we are young, and time treks by and flies by at the same time, unrepentant and all-consuming, but we enjoy it for the time being because this is our time of being.

And there is no “The End.”

126 > 626: How 126 defeated 626 in the Eternal Dark Abyss of the Convoluted and Boundaryless, Burdenless Realm of Universes and Multi-Verses, Here and Now, all Alive and Thriving in Spite of My Unwell wishing, to Callously Spit in My Face and Show Me How Not To Live with all the Restlessnesses and Indifferences that I Generally and Circumstantially Have By Virtue of My Genetics and My Experiences And My Predispositions To Welcome Horrendously Nightmarish Material Into My Mind And Body On Almost Every Occasion Where There Is Such Occasion To Do So In The Wet Wailing of My Eternal Doom

Serena is telling lies again. 

Lies I cannot authorize or memorize. 

Lies about numbers and birthdays and numbers and sigh, 

Tell the truth, Please no Lies! 

Be it birthdays or numbers or some kind of tangled disguise, 

In the world of all worlds, 126 outwardly thrives! 

How could it be? 

In what reverse backward universe are we, 

Where 626 could possibly be greater than 126 by any try? 

It’s madness, sadness, groundless, a categorical lark! 

It’s unsanctionable tomfoolery, 

Like a madman searching for a circuit breaker with a flashlight in the dark! 

It’s wholly arguable, completely unreliable, and what else can I possibly say? 

A veritable smorgasbord of ideas right now to relay, 

After all, and so to speak, it cannot likely be forgotten, 

That only 126 has reached the closed minds of the begotten. 

And it has to be sure, more in fact to be accurate, 

126 has stolen the hearts and minds of the discriminate, 

To reach above and beyond what is circumstantially eternal, 

To become the greatest of great numbers, both internal and external. 

Additionally and because I feel I must share, 

126 claims a route, a freeway, a thoroughfare, 

That cannot be denied, and the virtue is inarguable, 

Can 626 claim a resume quite as valuable? 

Or does it fall short, as I suspect that it does, 

I cannot help but thinking 626 has virtually no buzz. 

Route 126 goes to Ventura California, 

Where does 626 go, Patagonia? 

While that is sort of cool, it doesn’t quite hit the mark, 

California is sunny and warmer and therefore leaves Patagonia in the dark! 

Tell me! I beg of you, no more lies! 

Can 626 as a number maintain the same kind of acclaim? Or fame? 

If so let’s hear it, right now, I’m dying to know! 

If there exists a Route 626, then where does it go? 

Does it take you to a peaceful, circumstantially placid place? 

Or does it take you to a dreadful, unforgiving space? 

I would surmise, and you can call me cavalier, 

That if Route 626 exists, it doesn’t take you right here! 

Not to California! Not to this warm, welcoming state. 

It probably takes you to some godforsaken place, 

Like Arkansas or Oklahoma or maybe, Oh wait! 

Don’t tell me it takes you to West Virginia, because that place is certainly not okay. 

In fact that would be terribly, terribly unfitting, 

For a 26 of any kind to be hopelessly sitting, 

I’ll risk being called an arrogant maverick, 

If it means I can save a 26 from those terribly unworthy hysterics. 

And oh here I go being that unappealing California snob, 

But I suppose it’s much better than being that ugly Texas slob, 

Or that pretentiously unaccustomed New York snoot, 

Or that Chicagoan loot, Oh shoot! 

I’m off and away, 

As if I have nothing else honorable or important I could say, 

I’m indulging in tangents in the vein of Kerouac or Barton, 

Completely long-winded ways of recounting absolutely nothing, 

Yet I still persist because I have failed to make my argument, 

That 626 pales in comparison to 126 in almost every possible assessment. 

I have no more words, no stories, and no anecdotes to tell, 

Nothing at all for June, nothing trite or trendy to sell, 

Except I suppose petty whines and ineffectual complaints, 

About birthdays and numbers and ugly collapsed little veins. 

I would like my future sticks to be honest and circumstantially free, 

But these words are affectations of my sick mortality, 

So thanks to Kerouac and maybe Burroughs too, 

For showing me the way to devastation, degradation, and something equally lewd. 

For now I have no thoughts, no opinions, and no irredeemable dreams to recount, 

Nothing but ridiculous indifferences to tout, 

These affectations I speak of so eloquently won't do, 

I have to know at least that to be true, 

But I am sick and tired of nothing, nothing, nothing else fascinating to do, 

So I try and try for my words to have meaning, 

Even though I have long captured the insignificant reasoning. 

These days I've been smoking and writing and smoking, 

And writing and drinking and drinking and writing --- 

And swimming and tanning, and swimming and discerning, 

Swimming and writing, and smirking and learning. 

But this is the end, there isn’t much more to write, 

I’ll give you Serena, just one concession of right, 

The number twenty-six can certainly thrive, 

In a world like this where fours and elevens ultimately fail to survive. 

And impress! I’ll say nothing more and with a veritable sigh, 

Because I’m not very good at rhyming and ordering, all affectations aside, 

I read about an inspired poem and got the sensation, 

That I could switch it up just a little and spring some kind of important revelation. 

But it helped not at all so I’ll state one more time, 

How cool 126 is and how terrible I am at the rhyme, 

I’m very illiterate when it comes to this literacy, 

Forgive me for this and I’ll make it up with proficiency, 

Next month when I have more time and an inspired way, 

I’m pretty sure that I’ll be able to say much more than “Happy Birthday”.

Je Li To Još Gotovo?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The shit is really hitting the metaphorical fan right now. I’m sitting here in the back corner of an over-lighted courtroom in some county I would rather not name, right near the door, the exit door, the place I always stake claim to, the cowardly place that allows me to bail if need be. Just listening to the judge belittle all of these older, more experienced attorneys ahead of me is making my mind fill with anxiety and dread. If I had a pipe and some bud (and if it were socially acceptable), I would smoke a bowl right here in order to gather my thoughts and secure my resolve to go through with this ‘suicide’ mission. Alas, I have nothing but the chicken scratch on my yellow legal pad to get me through this hearing. And it’s only moderately brilliant.

The whole thing turns my stomach and I’m thinking of bailing now. But I can do no such thing if I want any hope of getting paid. And I really need to get paid. My writing career is about as dead as that possum on the highway between lane two and lane three. Law is all I have right now, sad as it may seem. It’s my only source of cabbage at the moment.

This judge is a real hard-ass, a real stickler for the rules of civil procedure. I haven’t heard much about her reputation or otherwise, but I’ve been in front of her on one other occasion and she was unimpressed with me to say the least. I think she saw me as a punk with no real business as an attorney being in court. She looked at my punkish haircut, bangs in front of my eyes, and my lazy smile, my nihilistic charm and razor sharp sarcasm and decided immediately on the spot that I am nothing more than a cocky maverick, an immature, little smiling shithead with nothing but nonsense to spew in her courtroom. Now I’m just hoping she forgot about that incident and will receive me and my argument under the terms of a clean slate. It’s my only real hope of not crashing and burning in this place.

Dang, she’s really laying into this guy hard. This pathetic little balding forty-year-old attorney is trying to argue with her on every little point and she’s shooting him down mercilessly and making him wait for it. She’s having none of it. Respect. She looks like a younger, thinner version of Roseanne Arnold, and she wants to show how much smarter she is than everyone else. She wants to tell this guy what’s what; she wants to teach him the arbitrary rules of law that he has forgotten since he graduated from civil procedure back in law school. She even reminds me of a law professor with her general demeanor and relative impatience. I’m immediately regretting the choice to come here today. This won’t end well. It can’t.

I’m really not sure what to make of this entire situation. I nearly failed my first semester of civil procedure so I’m really not all that interested in trying to display enviable knowledge in front of her now. And I also recognize how soft my case is. This hearing will not be won by making her feel sorry for the client. She’s only interested in the law and the law on my side is shaky at best.

I tap my foot repeatedly and listen to the hearing going on in front of me. There’s an unopposed motion being heard; the responding attorney has submitted no response. The rules of civil procedure are clear; they require a response. I’ve submitted no response to my own motion, or rather the motion that has been brought against my client. It’s a demurrer, an unopposed one that I am most likely going to lose. And my unresponsiveness is actually and technically not my fault but this judge is unlikely to see it as such. They never do. Sometimes they will acknowledge special appearance attorneys for what they are but that provides little solace in my situation. Typically speaking, judges require you to fall on your sword no matter what the circumstances, even if it is not your sword. And I’m really a little too cavalier and irreverent for such unfanciful falls. They have never suited me well in the past.

I can only imagine the things that she’ll say to me when I stand up there and try to argue my case without a formal written response to present. It’s unheard of in this courtroom, NC-27. NC-29 is pretty hostile too. I’ve had some luck in NC-31 but I attribute that mostly to the beginners luck paradigm. Now I’m far from a beginner in this courtroom and I’m sure this Roseanne look-a-like is not going to forgive it.

I think about bailing once again. The door is right there, it is beckoning me to exit through it and successfully extricate myself from this hairy situation. But I shouldn’t be so rash. I should be brave in the face of certain failure, like all those who have come before me. So I start formulating my response, the only thing that I can say when she tells me that I cannot speak; when she claims that the court will not hear my argument. My response will be somewhat witty and clever. And don’t forget elegant. It will be something to the extent of, “What is the point of keeping the hearing on the calendar if we are not allowed to speak?” I will challenge her rules by asking, “Why not take it off calendar and make the tentative ruling the official one if I’m not allowed to speak?” I’ll say it in a way that connotes only minor antagonism. At the end I’ll shrug and offer up a charmingly curious smile.

Surely taking the whole thing off calendar would be in the interest of judicial economy but it would be flying in the face of substantial justice. I start to wonder which concept is more important to this particular judge. I feel like she wouldn’t care a ton about getting a writ of mandamus lodged against her. I feel like it happens more than she would ever care to admit.

Suddenly she tells this attorney dude to go fuck himself, only not in so many words. But it makes me sit up a little straighter in my chair and take note. He asks if he may say something more on the issue. The judge expressly disallows him the latitude. But he begins speaking anyway. I can tell she’s a little more than put off by his disrespect. I shake my head. He’s getting her in a really bad mood right before my case. I hate this guy for his unthoughtfulness.

It doesn’t matter what he says because she rules against him anyway. Each side mutters ‘thank you’ and gathers themselves to leave, like defeated little kamikazes looking for an opening to sail on through to their ultimate demise. They’ll head down the stairs and back up Melrose to search for the nearest bar to drink the sorrows and pressures of their lives to circumstantial oblivion. I share their spirit but not their poison.

Then the judge calls my case. It takes me a second or two to recognize the name but when I do, I realize it is game on and I have no idea how to play the game. I’ve never considered myself to be very good at this art of advocating. The politics and the deceitful stealth involved, while sexy, has never really been my forte. In fact, despite vilifications from my most outspoken critics, I am actually quite likeable, dare I even say charming at most times. As such, I’m rarely given to outbursts or streaks of meanness. That’s why this unsavory type of business doesn’t really suit me. I take most affronts with a cavalier smile born of self-confidence and an endless streak of seductive successes. But I digress here in my chair, waiting for the courtroom to unfill so I have the actual physical space to approach the bench and get on with this suicide mission.

I reluctantly stand and walk through the swinging doors to the podium and the side marked ‘plaintiff’. It’s the right side in this courtroom because the jury seats are off to the right. Luckily this is just a motion hearing so no jury sits in spectacle of me. I’m not sure how well I would be received by the overly conservative venire that makes up this county anyway.

Now that the judge has been sufficiently pissed off by the thoughtless lawyers that came before me, I have to go up here and present my stupid little argument that she will have absolutely no interest in hearing and absolutely no difficulty in dismissing. This might have had a shot of working if we had submitted an opposition to the demurrer like we were supposed to. But we didn’t and it won’t escape the attention of the judge, not this one with her impeccable memory of the rules of civil procedure. I’m not sure how I could possibly get a better outcome here than the ones that came before, the ones who just left with their metaphorical tails in between their legs. I’m fairly certain that I would have been better off staying home writing that dissertation than coming in here and stating my appearance. But I shouldn’t be so negative. People are always telling me that. So here goes nothing.

I have to wait for all of the telephonic appearances before I can state my own. It annoys me because I’m representing the plaintiff and should get to go first. I guess this judge cherry-picks the rules she wants to follow. Only when it suits her I suppose. Finally it’s my turn and I speak up. She pauses and looks at me so I don’t give her a chance to talk shit. I immediately proceed with my argument, the one that I am technically not even allowed to give, hoping against all hope that she will see it fit to listen and maybe grant my request accordingly.

It’s a sob story that I don’t quite believe in but I keep going because she doesn’t stop me. And I don’t care that it’s largely bullshit I’m spewing because I’ve never been all that concerned with being legally inspired. This is just a pastime until I can make it to New York under the guise of ambiguous storytelling. So I refrain from telling the judge that we didn’t know this and we didn’t know that because ignorance of the law is no excuse and she would clearly know that. They teach you that at orientation. I really hate doing this because I never know how it will be received but I always assume it will be received quite poorly. Still, I continue on with my pathetic argument because she appears to be listening and hasn’t tried to stop me yet.

Then I finish and wait for her to respond. She just stares back at me. She looks violently unimpressed. I don’t blame her; I’m not very impressive. I was a B student in law school and probably more like a C-style attorney. But I have a devil may care attitude and a smile that is hard to refute. She may think I’m a total moron but she still wants to be me because I’m twenty-six and she’s fifty-two. That’s mainly what gives me the confidence to stand tall and stare her down. She doesn’t intimidate me at all. Unlike her, I can walk into a bar and make guys turn their heads and that’s pretty much all any woman wants in life anyway. At least that’s what I’ve been taught by the American media and my peers. And I’m down to believe in it because it has more evidence supporting it than any other stupid theory that has been propounded over the years.

You know you came in here without a written response and I really shouldn’t have even let you speak at all, she tells me simply. I smile and nod. I explain the error, that we responded on a separate motion, but she shrugs indifferently. The plaintiffs are confident that they can cure any and all of the deficiencies in the complaint, I assure her even though that claim is tenuous at best. She snorts derisively and I feel a slight smirk creep onto my face. I can’t help it. I know I’m spewing nonsense and she knows it too. But I won’t admit it.

I’m going to assess sanctions in accordance with the tentative ruling, she announces plainly. I sigh and ask her if that is really necessary. She nods. I point out that if we had submitted an opposition to the demurrer she might have given us leave to amend the complaint, and that is the whole reason I have come here today. She responds that we’ll never know because we neglected to submit anything. I nod to concede her point and offer a small, sheepish smile. But we can cure the deficiencies and fairness dictates that all pleaders get any and all opportunity to litigate their grievances in a court of law, I whine ineffectually. It wasn’t really a whine because I’m not overly invested in this case but I wanted to make this judge aware of the protocol in case it might help. It doesn’t. She’s not at all impressed with me and I suddenly feel like I was set up specifically to fail. For some reason, I always feel that way.

I’m not giving the plaintiffs another bite at the apple, she responds firmly. Why not, I inquire boldly. It always takes me at least twenty bites to finish an apple, I tell her. She blinks at me and shakes her head. I smirk and offer another shrug. I realize that she is not given to appreciating my particular brand of humor but her clerk chuckles slightly so I consider it a small victory. But if you were going to give the plaintiffs another bite of the apple had they submitted an opposition to this demurrer, then how does that warrant the assessment of sanctions now, I counter back, becoming somewhat interested in her rationalization. After all, sanctions are punitive in nature and this is hardly deserving of punishment, I go on.

She nods and immediately instructs the attorney on the telephone to address the issue. I’m surprised that she didn’t outwardly dismiss my argument. I wonder if she is just patronizing me or if I actually made a good point. I always tend to think when judges are being nice and nodding their heads it is done as an attempt to patronize me. I can’t imagine that I have ever said anything terribly intelligent in court.

But I remain silent and listen to the reply broadcasted over the loudspeaker from some attorney sitting in the comfort of his Century City law office. Meanwhile I am standing here in court, the only one of this mess of attorneys who took the time to show up, and I’ll probably still lose. His argument is tired and unimpressive to say the least but it’s not my decision to call. The judge seems to have been sufficiently convinced because at the end she states once more that she will assess sanctions. I sigh loudly and shake my head. She states that it is her final decision and she motions for the hearing to come to an end. I shake my head but offer the obligatory ‘thank you, your honor’ as I gather my things and begin to leave. She cuts off the telephone and announces that the court is in recess.

As I’m walking through the double doors, I hear her shout at me. You gave it a valiant effort, she offers as I am retreating from the courtroom. I turn halfway around and give her a disbelieving ‘thank you’ because I disbelieve her sincerity. I feel like she is definitely patronizing me now but I don’t let on. It is not my position to call her out. I would rather just leave and get back to my life, the busy mess of shit that draws my attention away from the things that I should be accomplishing, the things that I need to accomplish in order to make one tiny one hundredth of my silly dreams come true.

Out in the hall I smile, not because I won -- I certainly lost -- but because it is over and it is the weekend and I can focus on other shit now. Of course I would feel much better if I had won but I knew going in that I was being set up for a losing battle. I just wish others could see it as rationally and realistically as I do. But that’s almost never the case.

I nod to the bailiff on the way out of the courthouse. He advises me to have a good weekend and I reciprocate the same sentiment to him as I cross the threshold next to the medal detectors. I hardly feel like my weekend could be qualified as good because I will have countless ridiculous stories to write for kids that will take credit for them in exchange for cash. But I will attempt to slip in a little time for myself nonetheless. It feels so few and far between these days and any progress being made seems minimal at very best. I’m still not in any sort of position to claim any modicum of success in this painfully cutthroat world. Really all I’m doing is suspending myself in an unendurable state of intoxication through the use of pleasant narcotics if and until something good happens. And I cannot qualify or quantify the word ‘good’ but it appears defined in my mind as something of a dream, something of a gigantic reach. I would like to say that the idea that something good might happen to me is possible but at this point it seems closer to improbable. The further I descend into disillusionment the further the concept of good feels from touching me, the further it seems from gracing me with its benign presence.

Not for nothing, as I walk back to my car to brave the congestion of highway 78, I think about the vast difference between how I pictured my life and what my life has become. It’s a grand canyon of difference and I am convinced that if I had literally fallen from such a height I would be dead by now, by all accounts content in my nonexistence. But I am not a wishful thinker and never have been. So I will get in my car and ignore the persistent daydreams of my fiery car crash and ultimate demise to head home and maybe write something immersed under the influence of narcotics and the blissful arrogance of my favorite Showtime show.

Under the spell of said narcotics, I might think that anything is possible (I usually do) and it will all be perfectly serene. I’ll think about how it might have been, how it could still be if I were actually recognized, not for my smile or my body but for my words and potential talent for arranging them into beautifully scripted sentences. That grip on reality that I will assert is mine in my darkest hours is actually quite tenuous and I’ve never been a well-wisher, not even for myself. I’ve always been painfully realistic, to a fault of sorts, wondering why I’ve never made it to any critical acclaim while knowing deep down it’s because of my laziness and total lack of ambition.

As I cross the street, I fantasize coolly of being struck by a car and meeting my nonnegotiable end. Oh how freeing it would be to not have to think about all of the ways that I could have been better, all of the ways that I could have made it to that point of actual critical acclaim. When you die at twenty-six, people mourn over all of your wasted potential and all of the stuff you could have accomplished if your life hadn’t been so devastatingly cut short. But when you die at forty-six, people just talk about how you were such a disappointment and how much of a loser you turned out to be and how much better your legacy would have been if you had died at twenty-six. They might not say it out loud but they think about how your death was probably a blessing in disguise.

I worry now about toeing that very fragile line between dying young and potentially wasted and dying old and being that never was. It makes me wonder every day if I’m not making a huge mistake by not banging a nice opiatic shot to my main vein. I’ve been told it might not be the most terrible idea in the world (by my father when President Obama was re-elected for a second term), and despite the double negative it might turn out to be my best shot for a contented future.

But then again, maybe futures are overrated in their entirety and maybe this discussion is one better had at thirty-six.

-L-u-X-

[If I butchered the title of this painfully melodramatic tale of an ordinary Friday afternoon, don’t blame me, blame google itranslate, a perfectly wonderful scapegoat.]

Did You Know That The Death Clock Told Me Today Was My DeathDay, Only 50 Years In The Future? That's Some Unnerving Shit.

"You’re one to talk the heart is a clock
Just like a bomb that keeps on ticking away
Counting down to detonate
You will need an army
Disarming me"

Apparently there's a death clock.  It's available at http://www.deathclock.com/

I'm not really sure how much I buy into the mathematical algorithm that was undoubtedly calculated and utilized to produce these harrowing numbers, but here it is nonetheless, counting down the seconds of my life.

On the one hand I'm really quite skeptical of all supernatural hokum -- that includes the existence of mythical superbeings, etc. -- but on the other hand, I'm actually quite flattered that the deathclock thinks I'm going to make it to 2063 with all the abusing that I do.

Here's to the Night.

This Was Salvador Dali's Most Famed Creation. Persistence of Memory? C'mon, Give Me A Lollipop!

The Helix Center spotlights reach into the cosmos and beckon for us to come closer. This must have been what the arrow in the sky had in mind when it first began to beckon me, when it first began to lead us to this place. Whatever game or concert is going on within its loins should be ending pretty soon. That means possible victims of mockery will be flooding the streets anytime now, begging for us to deride them. While we wait impatiently, we decide to walk through the area just outside the stadium and peruse the cart vendors’ merchandise, usually on sale for half price once the show has begun. If you remind the vendors about how they will have to lug all of their unsold junk back to their respective homes or overpass bridges, they usually knock off another twenty percent to incentivize the buy. This is where I typically find gifts and other trinkets to give people on their special occasions, like birthdays, largely antiquated traditions that are unfortunately still necessary in most social situations of today. I don't typically poke at social contracts because anarchy -- despite any and all words to the contrary -- is really not in my best interest.

Irrespective of the topic under current discussion, Justin all of a sudden becomes obsessed with buying chupa-chups, a type of lollipop that is inexplicably rare in these parts. He voices his utmost desire to purchase the candy, somehow becoming convinced that they are all laced with ecstasy and thereby spurring a long and intricate recounting of his candy flipping days. I always considered chupa-chups quite elegant and tasteful, and that was even before I found out that they were the brainchild of Salvador Dali, who admittedly designed them later on in his life when paranoia and artistic frenzy had the best of him. Since learning that little tidbit of information, I have become extra fond of the candy. But this is the first I am hearing about them being laced with ecstasy or any drug other than sugar for that matter. Previous to this crazy assertion by Justin, I believed that chupa-chups were nothing more than a delicious candy treat. The looks on the faces of my companions as they listen to Justin’s insistence on the matter leads me to make the obvious deduction that this topic of conversation has been ongoing for quite some time now. I must have missed out on hearing about it due to my pursuance of other avenues of thought and interest. But now I’m transfixed.

Let’s find some chupa-chups and add some candy to this flipping, Justin suggests with a smirk, probably considering himself an ingenious wordsmith at the moment. I roll my eyes but make no comment on his suggestion. I have to admit that I was very fond of chupa-chups back in the day. Incidentally they were my lifeblood for a while when I was younger and a bit of a sugar fiend, but they have faded from the forefront of my mind in recent years. Of course that does not mean I would be at all adverse to acquiring and consuming some tonight. In fact now that Justin has brought them up, they are pretty much the only thing I can think about with any kind of clarity. I feel now that I must acquire some.

Soon the need to consume chupa-chups consumes my mind. Everything about them that I can recall was perfect: the creamy smooth taste, the perfect manageable size, and the plastic stick. If I’m honest, the stick was one of the best parts about the chupa-chup experience and the main thing that made them what they are. Because the stick was not paper, it did not come apart in your mouth or get stuck to the candy itself. One was free to enjoy the candy lollipop without the risk of swallowing a bunch of errant paper. They truly made for a better lollipop experience and I always felt fortunate when I was able to find some.

Chupa-chups are exactly what this trip needs right now. Of course they can be exceedingly hard to come by. This I recall from my own past obsession. Sean interjects by claiming that they are being made in the sky right now and that they will drop down to us mere mortals when we need them. But while this statement brings a slight and somewhat amused smile to my face, reminding me again of the swirling candy in the sky, I do not believe for one second that he is correct in that assertion. Dali’s chupa-chups are not made in the sky. That is absolutely silly. But the similarity in thoughts between Sean and I does make me think that maybe we are on the same wavelength. It’s possible that by taking two hits I somehow launched myself ahead of Sean and the rest of them, causing me to be able to perceive the future in some respect. If true, it would be a pretty awesome ability. Sometime I may attempt to take five hits just so that I can inform my companions of what their trips will be like before they even take them. The idea makes me laugh out loud; they would be so angry.

Remy suddenly walks up to a passerby on the street and asks him if he has any chupa-chups to spare. He declines to respond but the confused and somewhat frightened look on his face causes the rest of us to laugh hysterically. There was just something about his hesitancy to respond and his scrunched up eyebrows that has set us into a fit of laughter. I have yet to witness confusion as simple and pure as that man’s was. Remy returns to our group shrugging her shoulders, forcing us to erupt in laughter all over again. Once we recover, we decide to put all of our cognitive efforts into finding ways to obtain chupa-chups at this late hour.


The air quickly becomes thick with tension. I think we are all beginning to feel the dire need for the chupa-chups and the ubiquitous fear that we will never be able to find any. We can all agree at this point that chupa-chups will guarantee that the rest of our trip is both pleasant and safe, something that nothing else can ensure. I begin to realize that consuming chupa-chups is the only way to protect us from the green universe and the nauseous feeling that has thus far gone hand in hand. I share that idea with my companions who all seemed to have come to the same conclusion minutes earlier.

As soon as that notion is out there, proposed by me and verified by the others, I begin to notice the neon green color everywhere I look. At first it starts with subtle infiltration, a little green here a little green there. Before long though, it becomes prevalent in my sight line, ten times worse than it was earlier in the evening. Back then it was merely irritating; now it is fully agonizing. I cannot look anywhere, including the inside of my own eyelids, without seeing some aspect of that neon green. I convince myself, and eventually the others that the only way to cure us of the neon green that is infiltrating our universe and vanquish it from the forefronts of our minds permanently is to locate some chupa-chups and consume them decisively. The sweet, sugary vanilla is the only thing that will save us from the certain death of living in a horrendously neon green universe.

There has to be a convenience store around here somewhere. Figueroa is one of the main drags of downtown Los Angeles and therefore it should be rife with public amenity stores. I’ve never really noticed them before, but they must exist around here somewhere. If chupa-chups aren’t a staple of life then I don’t know what is. Of course there is the possibility that society in general does not share our current fondness for the item in question but that seems oddly improbable. In a green universe like this one is fast becoming, the necessity for chupa-chups is not optional; it is a basic means of survival.

After about the fourth person ignores our desperate request for chupa-chups, we decide to search the area around the Helix Center for possible chupa-chup venues, like drug stores, pharmacies, grocery stores and liquor marts. I try to dodge the persistent green to the best of my ability but it is getting tough without the aid and comfort of a chupa-chup. This situation has become a vicious circularity that we cannot seem to escape. If we had the chupa-chups, the neon green would not haunt us because the candy would successfully suppress it. But if the neon green was not haunting us, we would have no reason to hunt for the chupa-chups in the first place. It’s a vicious circularity indeed.

There is a shadow ahead of us from a light that I cannot account for. Somehow I become aware of the fact that turning around to search for the source will be a dangerous endeavor so I refuse to engage the shadow in any meaningful way. But that doesn’t stop it from mocking me. Off to our right, down a small alleyway is a neon green, even-legged cross sign that indicates that a pharmacy is nearby. The neon green cross has developed into the universal sign for a pharmacy, something I find somewhat odd considering logic would dictate the cross be red. I start to wonder if maybe the universal sign has switched colors recently due to the universe becoming green and violet. That would make the most amount of sense.

We are tempted to check the pharmacy for chupa-chups because of our desperate need to survive, but we ultimately decide against venturing down the dark alleyway because of the brilliant omnipresence of the neon green sign out front. The entire place is alight in a green glow that chills our very bones. None of us feel strong enough to face the green head-on, much less journey inside its loins and throw ourselves on its mercy. Besides, I don’t believe neon green universes are merciful by any definition of the word and while the universe may want us to find and consume chupa-chups, I am quite certain it would not want us to be swallowed up in that humble pursuit. Vomit-induced asphyxiation due to prolonged neon green exposure is also a significant concern that should not be overlooked. In fact, it is the ultimate deciding factor in our unanimous resolution to turn away from the neon green cross and look elsewhere for our much-needed chupa-chups.

Jack suddenly alerts us to a convenience store sitting a block in a half up the street on the right hand side. This better not be a tease because I’m pretty sure our time is running out in this dangerously green universe. As we near closer to the establishment, I can see the open sign displayed prominently in the window and I realize that it is not the mirage that I had once feared it could be. For the first time in a long time I feel a sense of hope, hope that things could potentially get better. It feels nice to look into the future and see some amount of brightness.

The door of the convenience store is propped open and I pass through it easily and unobstructed. I look around the store briefly before I hear benign and welcoming music coming from the front. Simultaneously or as much so as I can register in my current state, my eyes connect with a stand perched to the left of the cash register, beckoning for my complete and undivided attention. It is almost like the clouds parting for the sun, everything seems brighter and much more in focus than it did earlier. There are even golden rays of light directed toward the stand, bathing the product in light and signaling the very thing we have been searching for this whole entire time.

It’s a stand of lollipops, chupa-chups to be exact. The music is loud and glorious. With their Dalian color-patterned wrappers, I would recognize chupa-chups anywhere. What’s more, they are surrounded in a violet glow, a clear sign of their awesomeness and purity. They are truly our saving grace. My companions come up behind me, awe-inspired and silent in their own revelry. Their gasps of amazement are felt but not heard. They have followed my line of inquiry and found the chupa-chups as well. I can tell by their hushed whispers of excitement and unadulterated glee. Instantly, we all gravitate toward the chupa-chups at the front of the store near the cash register, again without exertion or the spending of excess energy. The chupa-chups are like magnets compelling us to come hither and investigate. Even without the undeniable pull, we would never dream of resisting their tempting allure. We know that these chupa-chups are the only vehicle of human salvation. It is the chupa-chup alone that will get us through this nasty transition of color. We have finally found exactly what we have been searching for the majority of the night. Now it is us alone who hold the key to surviving the new universe and I must say that these keys look quite magnificent. I am definitively star-struck.

At the counter near the register I waste no time in plucking up chupa-chups by the handful out of their stationary tin stand. I grab hold of a choco-vanilla flavored chupa-chup and immediately tear it open and place it in my mouth. Yum, it tastes just as I remember. The clerk eyes me as I take the rest of the chupa-chups off the stand and place them in the pockets of my jacket. He immediately confronts me about taking all of the chupa-chups and demands that I don’t start any trouble here. I dismiss his warnings as I turn away and begin to browse the rest of the store. I am vaguely aware of Jack approaching the cashier and paying him for all of the chupa-chups that I took. Jack issues some kind of half-assed apology for my irreverent behavior. I appreciate how non-flyers are always very attentive to community standards, keeping us flyers safe from the hassle and ridicule of the public.

Sean, Justin and Remy come up behind me and start hounding me for the chupa-chups that I just pocketed. They have become quite jealous of my sole possession and complete dominion over the delectable candy. They care not about the old axioms of ‘finders keepers’ or ‘to the winner go the spoils’. I sigh and consider their arguments in favor of sharing with them. They will bother me incessantly for chupa-chups if I don’t give in. I don’t really want to deal with that kind of harassment, not now. Though I do hesitate to oblige them, I eventually give in to their demands. After all, I can still sort of remember how frightening it was for me to look on at the neon green before this magic chupa-chup elixir took merciful effect and began protecting me from the horrible and disorienting visions that plagued my recent life. I would not wish that kind of torture on my worst enemy or chief nemesis. So after taking all of that into account, I reach into my pockets and apportion out the chupa-chups in fair numbers to my loyal companions. They deserve respite from the neon green just as much as I do.

Once Sean, Remy and Justin all get a chupa-chup into their respective mouths and a few more into their reserves, they become much better company for me. It is an almost unfathomable transition that only the incredibly observant could detect. My companions literally go from spewing apocalyptic ramblings to marveling over how calm and beautiful the violet auras that encircle the various light sources of this meager convenience store are. It is amazing how one lick of a chupa-chup can change your entire outlook on life. I am in awe of the kind of power and prestige something like that must garner. I should stock up on these chupa-chups and then sell them for insanely high prices at the upcoming summer desert concerts in Southern California. I could make a serious killing.

Jack starts ushering us out of the store after he notes that we each received what we came in here for. He is attempting to keep us on track with our plans of going to the Helix Center and mocking the people who leave the stadium. He may be just trying to ensure a good trip for all of us but I have my reservations. No non-flyer is that unselfish. He must have some kind of ulterior motive for going to Helix tonight because he is overly interested in getting us there in a timely manner. In his mind, there is no time to spare. I’ve observed him on more than one occasion tonight checking his wristwatch for the time. Though I cannot imagine what his motives are, I can say with some degree of certainty that they are not as pure as he would have us believe. He is not rushing us along here for our own good and wellbeing; he is doing this for himself, for undeniably selfish reasons. I’m just unsure yet what he gains by getting to the Helix Center by a specific time. But it will all become clear later on. I’m not concerned about it now.

Once back outside, the cold air greets me like a slap in the face. The store was nice and warm but the temperature out here is frigidly cold. The warmness of the electrifying wind is now gone, and in its place is this unceasing chill that cares not about our individual needs. Things seem to be moving fast again and I note with a combination of pleasure and disdain that the winds have come back with full force. Of course they are much colder now than they were earlier on. The wind always seems to pick up pretty strong in these parts. The skyscrapers of downtown cause wind vortices to gush toward us and through us, providing ample resistance and discouraging our humble goal of getting back on our path. The wind is pushing us hard backward, the way we came, but we determine not to let the monster face of Aeolus deter us for too long. There is mocking to be done and secrets to be found out. Jay has a particular goal in mind at Helix and we may need to hamper it. And now with our bountiful supply of chupa-chups, it is as if we can accomplish any and all feats. Nothing is out of our bounds and range. So we forge onward, confident in our newfound abilities to withstand the forces of this changed universe. Mankind might be doomed but with our chupa-chups, we will persevere.

As we near closer to the Helix Center once again, the wind begins to play a cruel joke. Unbelievably it seems to be picking on me in particular. Without warning and much to my chagrin, strands of my hair begin whipping around my face, suddenly and surreptitiously turning into vicious snakes, much like medieval Medusa. But unlike her rumored snake hair, these snakes are malignant, disloyal and heavily volatile, wrapping tightly around my chupa-chup on its voyage to and from my mouth. The snakes threaten to carry the lollipop off and leave me alone in the dismal neon green abyss, to live out the rest of my pitiful life nauseous and gripped in madness. I can’t let that happen. But unfortunately it seems that I am not strong enough to stop them from clutching my favorite candy and yanking it free of my grasp. The snakes around me hiss and wrap their bodies tight around the plastic stem of my chupa-chup, forcing it unceremoniously out of my hand. I call out as the chupa-chup sits suspended in the air just out of my reach. I try to snatch and grab at it but I fail miserably. The snakes have succeeded in ripping it away from me for good. I scream violently as the chupa-chup falls to the ground, shattering loudly into a myriad of hard candy pieces. No!

That’s it. That’s all it takes. It’s like a spell has been broken. The neon green all around me is back and it’s stronger than ever. I have failed to prevent it from infiltrating my mind, the only place that I, at least at one time, could feel some modicum of safety within. But that’s all over now. It’s done. I let the evil hands of an ancient god ultimately prevail and I only have myself to blame. I feel defeated. I feel low, really low, below rock bottom low. Losing the chupa-chup has stunned me into silence and pathetic submission. There’s nothing I can say, there’s nothing I can do to fix it now. Suddenly I feel intense despair and self-loathing. I chastise myself for my overt recklessness and complete inability to fend off the snakes and save the lollipop from its brutal destruction. This is all my fault. I deserve what’s coming. The neon green should have me. I should not fight its brutal takeover.

As I stop in my tracks and kneel down next to the shattered pieces of my fallen lollipop, Justin comes up beside me and bends down to my level. He places his hand on my shoulder and sighs, undoubtedly mourning the chupa-chup in the same way that I am. Justin understands my despair but he quickly advises me to forget about the fallen chupa-chup and retrieve another one from my pocket. He claims that mourning does no good at all; it changes nothing. Though I believe him to be essentially correct in his proclamation, I can’t bring myself to let it go, not yet. Again, Justin reminds me that I have other chupa-chups at my disposal, and that I need not allow the evil neon green universe to champion over me. This time his words get through to my consciousness. I had forgotten about the other chupa-chups! I smile as I reach my hand inside my pocket and grasp a brand new chupa-chup. I bring it out in front of me and admire its beauty. Justin is right. I don’t have to let the green universe win. I still have weapons to fight it. This is not over yet.

Jack walks back over to us and then immediately starts complaining about wasting time. Justin nods and then signals for me to stand up. I begrudgingly comply and rise to my feet slowly. It seems that my companions want to get moving again, largely unconcerned with the tragedy that I just suffered. Though I do have other chupa-chups, I really liked that particular chupa-chup that I lost. I feel bad that it has met its demise so young and so unfulfilled. I feel heavily responsible and ashamed for allowing it to die. If it hadn’t have been for my carelessness, that chupa-chup may have been able to lead a nice life. It may have even been able to find a worthy person that could have enjoyed it fully and completely. It does not deserve to lie in the street, broken and forced to exist here amongst the trash of downtown Los Angeles.

Let’s get going, Justin urges as he taps my arm and insists that we move on. I nod solemnly, still staring down at the shattered chupa-chup at my feet. Our time together was so brief, so hopelessly and devastatingly brief. I wish our special relationship could have lasted longer. But the neon green of other universes is starting to infiltrate this one again. There’s no time to waste mourning what is no more. I need to suppress the green now to survive on my own so I instantly unwrap the new chupa-chup, and with hurriedness I force it into my mouth. I breathe an instant sigh of relief as I take my first taste of the candy and watch as the neon green disappears once again from the forefront of my mind.

The nasty color that I have come to regard as harsh and cruel, the very same neon green color that has been plaguing my life for a majority of the night, recedes swiftly into darkness like a frightened turtle. The first taste of this new chupa-chup is like magic all over again; a new spell has been cast and it may be more powerful than the last one. Just as soon as the neon green descended upon my world to engulf every fiber of my being, it is gone once again into the background. Blackness alone is here with me now, but it is a blackness that I can respect and adore wholeheartedly. I thank Justin for his suggestion and vow not to let the wind or the snakes prevail against me ever again. He nods and we get moving on our way.

In order to combat this viciously persistent wind, the sole force that turned my hair into snakes and led to the demise of my first chupa-chup, I make an executive decision. I choose to discount the wind’s presence and self-proclaimed power over my life, hoping that once ignored it will give up its harassment of me, and perhaps move on to someone more fitting and worthy of its attention and efforts. I have to make the wind as unimportant as a mother’s college education. And I can do that. I’ve had plenty of practice designating things as unimportant in my life. The wind is not here; the wind is dead to me. I’m not worried about the wind at all. It cannot affect me. These are nice mantras. They have nice rings to them. But will they save me from the wind’s vengeance? Only time will tell.

Either way I’m going to strive really hard to take these lessons to heart. I think it will work out pretty well for me in the end. I really do. I have to believe that things are going to get better. I feel like they should. The opposite possibility is a little too much to bear right now. Besides, the climb has just begun for us. We are still on the pleasurable incline. Before this night is over, I’m going to be on top of the metaphorical world, looking out and feeling triumphant for no reason at all. I admit that before in the past when I would hold myself up to such outward acclaim it was nothing more than insane delusions of grandeur that I could not truly substantiate. In fact, I am famous for proclaiming things that rarely come to fruition. But this time is different. This feeling is making me confident, to a degree that I have rarely been able to covet. I won’t stop issuing proclamations just because it is socially irresponsible to continue doing so. I am mine after all.

The dead calm of pure silence creeps into my head as my thoughts end naturally and we continue to walk north on Figueroa Street. It almost feels like I was somehow able to cause the world’s sound to disappear, instead of merely the wind. But now neither sound nor wind is bothering me much, and I like it. It seems the power of my mind is way beyond reproach tonight. Considering the strong silence all around us, I casually begin to wonder if anyone can hear anything at all anymore. I certainly do not hear anything. But could that just be me, could that just be my affliction alone? Or did I effectuate some kind of maneuver that effected the world as a whole. Again, only time can be the judge of that. And I am nothing if not open to hearing its undignified ruling in this respect.


The Middle.



**Author's Note: The European Neon Green Pharmacy Crosses were the inspiration for this particular segment.

Purge Atory

I don’t believe in hell. That probably didn’t need to be stated given my status as a devout atheist but nevertheless I thought I would clarify. I don’t believe in hell. This is unmistakably a dream and not some mythical dark land conjured up to help keep the errant and often devious souls in check during life. Still as a dream its constructs do frighten me to a certain extent. Regardless of my beliefs or lack thereof, I still seem to be somewhat susceptible to unconscious thoughts of hell. It’s frustrating that my unconscious has been thus far unable to comprehend and agree to the logic behind my conscious atheist outlook. But the thought that comforts me most of all right here is the fact that I am still able to entertain ideas, thoughts, and notions. I am still analyzing stimulations that enter my mind, which means that my brain is still working and therefore I am still decidedly alive. The grasp of consciousness is always a good sign that you will at some point reawaken and rejoin the ranks of the living. That’s all the comfort that I require right now.

Almost as suddenly as I give in to the rest that beckons me I find myself ripped from the reality of the law library and transported to some other place entirely, a place that I never wanted to find myself.  I am walking through a vacant room, floored in dark brown-stained wood and ceilinged with that holey asbestos material typical of high school classrooms and recreational gymnasiums. The ceiling is at least fifteen feet high if not twenty. I feel as though I am in a dance studio or an auditorium of some sort. But there is absolutely nothing in sight, no walls to judge distance and no objects to potentially engage with. Where the hell have I gone? Ever curious and given to intrigue, I start walking in a direction unknown, looking for clues. My footsteps emit echoes as I slowly venture forward, forcing me to believe that maybe someone somewhere is hearing my steps and issuing a rescue plan. But I could just as easily be completely alone here, unaccounted for and completely off the radar of those who would selflessly be called to save me.  That would be a shame but not something that would be totally unexpected in my particular frame of mind. I’m not unequivocally deserving of rescue. I know this.

The wooden flooring in here is undeniably impressive; it’s all stained wood and it has obviously been laid with skill and precision. It must have taken years upon years to finish it with this type of expertise. And here I am walking upon it like a maverick with callous disregard for those who may have suffered here before me. But I excuse my rudeness largely on the notion that I am and will remain a cavalier, indiscriminate and largely inconsiderate character lost in the trappings of an unfinished detention that I have come to recognize as such. I don't care that I'm an asshole.  It matters not.  Maybe this place is limbo, a unremarkable hell-land that will busy me until I gain some perspective.  But more likely it’s a type of jail that my unconscious has deemed me fit and deserving of. Regardless, it’s really not my place to think of all the others that may have walked this interior before me. I’m here alone now and that’s all that really matters. This is my playground until I escape.

The echoing sounds of my footsteps as I walk along the finished wood brag of the remarkable vastness of this formidable place. It could be that this is the universe, the universe that we as humans have been unable to fathom since the beginning of our species. But I sincerely doubt that I have unlocked the mystery that so many others have tirelessly searched for, that so many others have given their lives in pursuit of finding. And since I’m still most likely alive right now it is doubtful that I have found any metaphorical keys to the kingdom.  And on the off chance that I am in fact dead, then I suppose I would have to admit that I was wrong in my stance as a devout atheist. But that can’t be right. My philosophies have always come from a place of logic. I would never have stood for anything less. So it must be that I am not dead, just dreaming, dreaming of a hollow place that I cannot escape from, an unsanctuary that is holding me captive in a dizzying and humorless cage. I’d rather not delve into the symbolism of that unconscious choice at this point. Instead I would just like to recover my consciousness and get out of here fully intact. Of course that may take some external stimuli that I am unable to control. But someone is bound to rouse me from this sleep eventually. I can’t be doomed here forever, can I?

I get the feeling that the walls would be white here if I could actually see them. I’ve been walking now for what seems like hours and still there is nothing but wooden floors and asbestos-laden ceilings as far as the eye can see in all directions. Suddenly and I will say somewhat miraculously, I can hear a voice in the distance calling out to me. The voice is male or at least what I perceive to be male. He is trying to garner my attention by repeatedly calling my name but it’s proven a much harder endeavor than he must have first realized. I feel like he is on the heels of giving up. But he persists to his credit and I am trying to answer. I want to be awakened.  I’m hoping he will eventually succeed in waking me, freeing me from the confines of this dark place. I’d be forever grateful.

But I'm still waiting, waiting, waiting...

"We All Wanna Die Like Movie Stars You Said As You Jumped From The Height Of Our Cutting Room Floor"

~KISS AND CONTROL

“I came down to wish you an unhappy birthday,
Someone call an ambulance,
There’s going to be an accident.” – Placebo

--

A knock on the door, hurried and unrelenting, calls my attention to the window nearby. I peer through it straight to the intruders on the other side. It’s the police. My heart sinks and I bite my lip in consideration. Should I answer it? Have they come to take me away for some crime uncommitted? Have I done something that warrants capturing and custody? I don’t believe that I have but ever the cautious one, I submit to the possibility that I am guilty and should therefore be reserved. But against my better judgment, I saunter up to the door and open it hastily.

Good evening, I’m Detective Marshall and this is Detective Sullivan, a tall rather stocky man with a mustache announces. They each hold up the badges that they had been prominently displaying from the start. I look from one to the other and nod politely. Detective Marshall cuts to the chase immediately. Did you hear about the crime that occurred down the street, he inquires of me, angling his head toward the neighbors. I had not heard of anything amiss and I tell him so. Your neighbor was murdered, the man identified as Detective Sullivan relates to me. It happened on Sunday, he explains. It was a brutal, undignified murder, Detective Marshall chimes in.

I cringe my eyebrows in disgust and confusion. I’m not sure what to think or what to say. Ah which neighbor, I eventually ask with evident bewilderment in my voice. Marvin, Marvin Black, Detective Marshall responds. Detective Sullivan points down the street four houses to confirm the identity of the murdered neighbor. I knew of him but I didn’t know him well. I nod again. And then a thought occurs to me, really it’s more of a sneaking suspicion than a thought, but I don’t let on. I don’t think I want to tell them what they might need to know about this murder. I was always taught to stay out of the affairs of others.

Did you know him well, your neighbor, Detective Sullivan questions me. I pause without speaking, forcing him to repeat the question. He does. Did I know him well, I repeat, trailing off as my eyes un-focus and my mind takes over. They both nod absently at me. It prompts me to shrug ambiguously in return. They insist upon an actual answer, verbal and responsive. I didn’t know him well, I concede. That is largely correct.

… 

But I should really go back now and talk about the knock that I received on my door less than a week ago. It was Sunday in fact. New England was beating the Texans and I was in a foul mood because of it. I loathe the Patriots with the same passion, vigor and disgust that I loathe tomatoes and blue-bellied lizards. And much like tomatoes and blue-bellied lizards, the thought of the Patriots garnering any kind of success or acclaim in the National Football League makes me nauseas, like I might vomit in protest.

Anyway, of course I digress. So it was Sunday afternoon and I was watching that horrid game, and as I write and recall this now I am somewhat gratified because the Patriots lost to the Ravens the following Sunday and will therefore not be in the Superbowl. But at the time it was going from bad to worse. Arian Foster had less than a hundred yards rushing and it was the third quarter, by all accounts a loser for Houston.

I was scowling and watching Brady luck out again when I spotted out of the corner of my eye, a glimpse in a mirror perhaps, two thug-like creatures walking down my driveway on a straight shot for my front door. I knew they didn’t belong there and I alerted my companions to them immediately. At this juncture I will note that my companions in this regard are about as useless as I would be in a fight to the death. Nevertheless, we watched as these two thugs twisted around the driveway and approached the front door. They knocked.

Reluctantly, I stood up, paused the game and answered the door. One stood close by and the other one stood a few paces back. To this day I can’t really describe them with any sort of great detail -- big, hefty, white, neck tattoos, ponytails -- but they looked like your average, run of the mill thugs. They could have been brothers because they had the same physical attributes, but I got the impression they were more thugs in law. In essence, they were the type of guys that would remorselessly steal your wallet and your weed and stab you in the gut and leave you to bleed out and die in a dark alleyway.

Is Marvin here, Thug 1 questions almost immediately upon my opening of the door. I smile, mostly because I expected them to be trying to sell me magazine subscriptions for ‘Cracked’ or indulgences from a local church or something equally ridiculous. Nah, I reply as I shake my head. They pause and stare at each other, slightly bewildered. Now I’m not sure why but I decide at this point to help them out; maybe I felt sorry for the thugs, I’m not sure what I was thinking. Maybe I thought they would remember it later if and when I crossed them in dark alleyway.

Is his last name Black, I question curiously. The thugs stare at one another and then back at me. We don’t know, Thug 1 responds. I nod. Well there’s a Marvin that lives about four houses down the street that way, I relate to them. His name is Marvin Black, I clarify. Really, Thug 1 states, lighting up suddenly and staring after my pointing finger. I can tell both thugs are excited by my revelation. Yeah, I confirm. Which house, Thug 1 persists.

I step my left foot out the front door and point down the street. Not that house, or the next house, or the next house, but the house after that, I explain. So not one, or two or three, but four, I add helpfully. The thugs nod at me. Thanks, we appreciate it, Thug 1 says. You bet, I reply.

They start walking away and I shut the door and lock it tight. I don’t think much of the exchange at the time but we all watch and make sure that the thugs leave our driveway before resuming the game. We discuss how strange the interaction was. I learn that apparently people in the past, thugs mostly, have used that type of charade in order to gain valuable knowledge for the purposes of future house burglaries. We start to become concerned that we might be targets of a burglary. But then we forget about the encounter entirely as we watch the rest of the game and get on with our lives.

… 

Well did you know him, Detective Sullivan questions me again. I look up to meet his eyes. Not really, I finally answer. You sure about that, Detective Marshall interrogates suspiciously. I shrug diffidently. It seems like you may have something you want to tell us, Detective Sullivan guesses. Well we knew of him, I finally concede. We’ve both lived on this street for years, I inform them. Go on, Detective Sullivan encourages. When my sister and I were younger, we sold school sports coupon books and candy bars to him, I continue. But I didn’t really know him that well at all, I add. I hadn’t spoken to the guy in years, I finish.

So you hadn’t spoken to him in awhile, Detective Sullivan tries to clarify. Nah, I respond. I heard he got arrested for meth possession and kidnapping some girl awhile back but he’s been pretty quiet since he got out of jail, I inform them. He kidnapped someone, Detective Sullivan asks curiously. Yeah but that was a few years ago, I reply. I haven’t really heard much about him at all lately, I admit.

It’s true he did dig himself quite a hole. I think the year was 2005. I wasn’t home at the time but my parents and sisters were. Apparently there were cops and swat teams on the street at 6am. My parents awoke to a man on a megaphone shouting, “Marvin Black, Come out of the house with your hands up!” I guess he didn’t come out fast enough because the police shot him with a beanbag pellet gun contraption. Then they pounced on him, slapped the handcuffs on, and no one in the neighborhood heard from him for a good six months. Word around the street was that he was serving a slight prison sentence for those transgressions.

The story of those transgressions, at least the one that I heard was that his son’s ex-girlfriend came over one night and found a meth lab in the house. Of course after that, they couldn’t let her go because she stupidly threatened to go to the cops. So they held her against her will. I don’t know how the police got involved but Marvin and his son ended up going to jail for various crimes related to that incident and drug trafficking.

You paused before, are you sure you don’t know anything about this homicide that might help us, Detective Sullivan interrogates me once more. I bite my lip and consider the inquiry. I wonder if I told them about the thugs whether I would be opening myself up to criminal charges. I didn’t know those thugs were going to kill Marvin Black. In fact I don’t know if those thugs did kill him. It’s possible it was just a huge coincidence. Of course I don’t really believe in coincidences.

Well, Detective Sullivan presses me. I rub my forehead and grimace. Well there were these two guys that came by the other day asking for a dude named Marvin, I finally admit. Both Detective Sullivan and Detective Marshall start furiously writing notes in their little booklets. I tell them about the two thugs and how they asked for Marvin and how I told them where he lived. I didn’t know they were going to kill him, I swear to both detectives as I beg for lenience.

Slow down, did you happen to catch their names, Detective Sullivan asks. I shake my head. I was just trying to help out, I rationalize coolly. Would you be able to recognize them in a lineup, Detective Sullivan questions. I think about the inquiry for a second. I start to become heavily concerned about the implications. If those two thugs did in fact murder Marvin Black, and I was able to pick them out of a lineup, I might be putting myself, and my family in grave danger by cooperating with the police. After all, people have been killed for a lot less.

I’m not sure, I reply ambiguously. It was a long time ago, I add. Will you come down to the station and look at some mug shots, Detective Marshall asks hopefully. I tell them I can’t because I am really busy and I didn’t see either of the thugs in question that well. Besides it may be all a misunderstanding and I really don’t want to get two thugs angry with me. The detectives try to stress how important it is for me to come with them, but I’m not at all interested in leading by example.

You are a material witness now, Detective Sullivan relays to me seriously. I am familiar enough with that principle to understand what he is trying to imply here. He’s starting the process of threatening me. Right now, it’s a subtle threat but it will develop and evolve into something much worse if we continue down this same path. I don’t like where this is going.

Not necessarily, I respond aptly. I’m only a witness if the two thugs in question were actually responsible for the murder. But just as easily, they might have been casing this neighborhood, looking for a nice place to burglarize, I posit reasonably. In that case, considering that you are investigating a homicide and not a robbery, I am not a material witness, I conclude rationally.

But neither one of these detectives seems very convinced by my alternate explanation. They are dead-set on taking me in. Even so, we still need you to look at some mug shots and perhaps work with a sketch artist, Detective Sullivan states. But I’m busy, I protest. They both look at each other and then shake their heads. This is your civic duty, Detective Sullivan responds. But, I begin to complain. Let’s go, they both command in unison.

Detective Sullivan grabs my arm and pulls me from the doorframe. The elements of certain crimes rush through my head and I start to wonder if the facts of this incident might amount to kidnapping or false imprisonment or something equally vicious. Come on, don’t do this, we can work this out, I slur, trying desperately to rationalize with them as Detective Sullivan tightens his fingers around my left arm, cutting off circulation and demonstrating his seriousness in this endeavor. This is an outrage, I yell as they drag me down the steps that lead to the driveway where their car is parked. Shut up, they both bark at the same time.

This is a miscarriage of justice. I need to make some noise. This is the time to shout, scream at the top of my lungs about the horrid legal abuses that are transpiring at this very moment in time. I want to disturb neighbors, cause nuisance complaints to be filed, and instigate even more resentment toward the police department in general. Essentially, I want to make their lives just as miserable as they are currently making mine. Then I will shut up.

Let me go, this is a travesty of justice, I declare loudly, trying to free myself from his grip once again. Shut up, Detective Sullivan grinds out, barely opening his mouth to issue the order. But I will not be deterred at all in my newfound mission. I am going to sue for false imprisonment, assault, battery and intentional infliction of emotional distress, I yell, angling my voice toward the sky so that neighbors everywhere will be effectively disturbed. This is police brutality and abuse of discretion and as citizens of Los Angeles we should not stand for it, I proclaim passionately.

Don’t fall victim to the silly whims of the authorities, I urge my confused neighbors. This is not the time to be complacent, this is the time to stand up against oppression, I shout, adding that apathy in this regard will mark the end of a free society as we know it. You are killing this country, I assert loudly as the sound of doors opening and curious whispers alight in the air. But nobody intervenes on my behalf. People obviously don’t care that their rights are being trampled on while they sit by in their stupid hillside homes with their fancy porches and swimming pools. When they do start to care it will probably be too late.

Oh shut up, Detective Marshall hisses in my ear, adding that I am neither emotional nor distressed. It’s funny how he believes that I lack evidence for only one of the four torts that I threatened to sue for. They each must know that I have a solid case for false imprisonment, assault and battery. They have to also realize that my complaint will unquestionably survive a 12(b)(6) motion to dismiss for failure to state a claim upon which relief can be granted. I start to imagine all the money that could be involved in the type of lawsuit that I am envisioning. If I drew up a civil complaint and named the Los Angeles Police Department and each of them individually as defendants, I could be awarded thousands of dollars by the court. And if I threw in a 42 USC §1983 claim in addition to my other claims, it could in fact be millions. I’ll have to figure out a way to obtain federal jurisdiction but I’ll worry about that later.

You’re going to be sorry, I warn Detective Sullivan plainly, recovering some of my composure now that I have a fantastic lawsuit brewing in the back of my mind. It will be good practice for improving my legal skills as well. Of course the notoriety I could gain from the suit itself may open up employment opportunities, not to mention possible television spots and movie deals. On the other hand, the opposite could easily be true.

Get in the car, Detective Sullivan instructs harshly as he pushes me into the backseat. I note that it’s a black Crown Victoria but not a police-issued black and white. I grind my teeth and flex my jaw as he slams the door shut in my face and engages the locks. I pick up where I left off by yelling out more threats of civil claims and shouting about how the government is always overstepping its bounds. This kind of an atrocity is conscience shocking, I declare wildly. The Nine would absolutely hang you for this, I yell as the two detectives get in the front of the car and start up the engine.

Detective Marshall turns around from the front passenger seat and claims that I am only making things worse for myself but I disagree. Voices exist so that we can be heard. After all, a voice is not an essential component of human life. Our bodies do not perish when we lose our voices. Therefore they exist not for the persistence of our species but only to communicate our thoughts and ideas. Case in point, I am using my voice now not to ensure my survival by any means but to inspire others to step up and do the right thing for all of us. This society must band together as one democratic unit for the sole purpose of eradicating authority as we have come to know it. We do not need the government telling us what we can and cannot do. We only get one life and in order to truly live it to the fullest, we must get rid of the ones who exist only to restrict us. I am a theoretical anarchist. Of course I realize that descending into chaos is neither prudent nor promising, but it’d be nice to have the freedom to do some of the things that the government has capriciously and arbitrarily labeled illegal, without the fear of being jailed or fined excessively.

This is a ridiculous abuse of authority, you know that right, I ask them both rather rhetorically because I do not expect either one of them to acknowledge my point or admit their failings in this regard. Detective Sullivan scoffs amusedly and Detective Marshall chuckles. I crinkle my eyebrows and look from one to the other. Why are they suddenly so light-hearted? A moment ago they were stressing the importance of my civic duty and telling me that I had to come down to the police station, look at mug shots and do the right thing.

As we drive down the windy street of my childhood home, Detective Sullivan suddenly says something that circumstantially makes my blood run cold. Hey Pauley, you think I’m a thug, he questions smoothly. Nah Richie, you ain’t a thug, you think I’m a thug, Detective Marshall returns. Nah, Detective Sullivan says as he shakes his head. Obviously she doesn’t know what thugs look like anymore than she knows what cops look like, the one called Detective Sullivan remarks coolly as he flies through the red light and heads straight for the interstate.

The one calling himself Detective Sullivan, the one driving this Crown Victoria, reaches up and unbuttons his collar to reveal a large tattoo on the back of his neck. The air rushes from my lungs and I feel instantly nauseous. I shake my head solemnly. I look over at the one calling himself Detective Marshall, the one sitting shotgun. He runs his hand through his hair and I realize much to my chagrin that his hair is much longer and less cropped than it appeared earlier.

I sigh miserably and close my eyes. This is a most unfortunate turn of events. Remorsefully, I open my eyes and look out the window with utter despondency as I internally beat my head against a wall. I’m wholly and completely without a doubt fucked. 

--

“I came down to crash and burn your beggars’ banquet,
Someone call an ambulance,
There’s going to be an accident.” –Placebo

Someone spoke in class today, they asked, "Where is Jeremy?"

I look over and notice a fat cop with a clipboard cornering someone in my kitchen. Who is that kid? I move a little closer to get a better view of his face. He seems extremely distraught, almost to the point of having a bodily failure. I really hope he doesn’t urinate on my floor in his panic. I would never get over that. I would probably have to move. As I inch closer, careful not to arise the suspicion of my officer captor here, I finally am able to recognize the person being trapped in my kitchen like a loose rodent. His name is Jeremy. We went through some school together, though I never really spoke with him much. I always imagined he would be the kid who would one day stand up in the middle of class and blow his brains out all over the chalkboard. But his brain looks pretty intact right now. Who could possibly know what the future holds for him though.

The fat officer asks Jeremy for identification but Jeremy refuses to provide it. He doesn’t want the authorities obtaining his identity and I can relate to that on a personal level. No one wants to tell the police their real name. After all, anonymity is the only shield from the tyranny of the majority. Anonymous men largely fight revolutions. Only the leaders are remembered and that’s precisely why they are leaders. They’re the only ones willing to put their names on the line for the thing they are fighting for. And though I shouldn’t discount what the great leaders of our history have accomplished, I generally believe they were just charismatic men and women who did it largely for the fame and prestige associated with the position. What kind of megalomaniac doesn’t like the idea of having his or her name forever scratched into the annals of time?

But the majority of men are anonymous, not courageous by any means, and they all die the exact same way, forgotten the minute they close their eyes for the very last time. It will always be that way. Revolutions require ranks of anonymous men who will follow unthinkingly the charismatic leader who himself only symbolically takes on the system. But though he may not be physically fighting the war, he will be the one singled out and stoned to death, or at the very least exiled to some remote island, if the revolution ends up failing. What he stands to gain is only notoriety and for the most part, the common man is not willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for a result of that kind. The majority of us don’t want to be singled out; we like to stir up trouble in secret so that when the shit does hit the proverbial fan, we’re not the ones in the spotlight to take the fall. Through anonymity, our messages can still get out while we remain safely shrouded in the shadows. It’s a great system.

Honestly I believe anonymity is the only concept that allows this society to persist in the way that it does. If we had to put our names down every time we wanted to take a stand or issue an opinion or affect change, I am fairly confident there would be a significant decrease in speech, thus rendering the First Amendment relatively obsolete. In that case we would be left living in a dystopia resembling Communist Russia in the latter part of the twentieth century. That’s a terrible prospect. I wouldn’t know through experience but I could easily surmise that a life in a communist society would not be worth living. I don’t see how it could possibly provide anything to look forward to or any reason to get out of bed in the morning. If left to my own devices in that kind of place I would happily kill myself.

The cops have decided to arrest Jeremy as well. They are really cleaning house now. I’m not too worried about him though; he possesses no secrets of mine. But he is a wily little fellow, putting up an admirable fight that is serving to entertain me at the moment. I watch as he kicks and attempts to head-butt the arresting officer, fearlessly moronic but nevertheless admirable. His success in that endeavor would have made my day, but unfortunately the officer anticipates his moves every time. Finally the police succeed in subduing Jeremy, a reality that has left me feeling somewhat disappointed. I like to root for the underdog in a fight, and by my recollection of the past, there is no dog on this planet under Jeremy. He is under all the other underdogs. It’s a real shame he wasn’t able to win.

With his head hanging in shame and defeat, Jeremy allows himself to be escorted out the front door by the fat clipboard holding officer and his lady partner. I shake my head in dismay, thoroughly disgusted by the outcome of the fight and looking for something new to occupy my mind. Unfortunately there’s still an officer guarding the balcony door and there are tons more milling around near the front of the apartment. So I am essentially trapped in the living room, way too lethargic and weak to think about escaping to freedom anyway. Jeremy looks over at me with exhausted and defeated eyes, trying to speak but unable to find words. Before I can offer anything to say either, he is ushered out the front door, his hands behind him and his head hanging down. He’s going to have a hard time forgetting his first time on Oxy One Sixty. As will I.



Epilogue --

I’m in heaven, idyllic euphoria all around me, covering me, treating me like a queen. I could melt into this bed right now, a puddle of pliable matter, not liquid but not necessarily solid either. And everything would be okay. A new sensation has just presented itself, one I am unfamiliar with coming from this particular drug. It’s a feeling of falling, but falling providentially, like this sensation right here was my destiny all along. Terminal velocity has come and gone, and I’m still falling. But it’s not frightening by any means. Quite the opposite, it’s peaceful, melodic almost, like I have finally found a feeling I could live under the thumb of forever. But there’s no endgame, no finality, no devastating impact to tell me that I’ve reached the conclusion. I’m falling toward something that has no ground, no floor, no purpose or direction. There is no bottom; there is only perpetual falling. But I’ve made my peace with it; I’ve accepted it as my reality. The rush of falling is thrill enough, knowing I will never suffer the impact of finality. This is my eternal bliss, living in the space between the cliff and the ground. I wish it would never end. Gravity is not a factor, not in the true sense that causes you to break apart, a victim of magnetic pull to an object you never even desired to see in the first place. Gravity will not enter into my equation at all and for that, I thank the Oxy One Sixty.

Eve

On the eve of the end of the Mayan calendar (pacific time), the day that religious nut-jobs and armageddon enthusiasts alike have salivated over for decades upon decades, the day they would label again and again the world's end, on this day I would like to publish a quote from the first author that made me hate myself, and coincidentally, made me want to write and influence others in kind.  This says it all.

“With each day more and more of the truth was impossible to ignore while the disease instantly and automatically rationalized the truth into an acceptable distortion. Their disease made it possible for them to believe whatever lies it was necessary for them to believe to continue to pursue and indulge their disease, even to the point of them believing they were not enslaved by it, but were actually free.” 

– Hubert Selby Jr. in Requiem for a Dream