Family Matters

This season, I spared the public from another beloved Christmas tale of yesteryear... messages fill the fabric of time and the envelopes of the righteous. We separate ourselves, becoming the cats of ruined buildings... winding ourselves in piles of dirty laundry sniffing for that faded comfort. The dust has been shifted, thinking over events and memories of my life... particularly about my Mother and Great-Grandfather's stories of "When He Was A Little Girl". I can't recall the tales, but they always started with that phrase... to this day, I'm still uncertain. Other than a handful of dry roasted peanuts and curiously watching the people cry at his funeral and wondering why, I have nothing to remember him by. As for my Mother, I have plenty to remember... a crooked smile flashes across my face as I relive those "precious moments". My Mother is an extremely loving, giving, and thoughtful person... one side of the dysfunction straddling on candy cane crutches. Thinking of those good qualities, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I suppose when someone has such an extreme goodness, there must be an equal amount of wickedness... those were the days of my childhood. She has changed a lot over the years, and mellowed out significantly... now only a part-time zealot and no longer threatens to have stuffed animals murder you in your sleep. The few people in my life that are familiar with my past and have actually met her, are always expecting to see a monster, rather than a smiling, fragile looking child in an elderly shell... I lived it, so you can imagine how I feel. Mindfuck is the only world fully capable of grasping the situation. Somethings never change and some tells of her dysfunction can clearly be seen, like her lack and disgust of physical affections and still talking through the mouths of the stuffed animals she carries around with her at all times... a land of the fence post people, rigid and content in the mud and mire. I don't hate my Mother and wish her no ill will. Those moments are past and even though I don't understand the reasoning behind the severe manipulation and abuse, I'm okay with it... to the best of abilities at least, for I am a broken toy. When I was a child, the accepted behavior was laughing away your pain. I learned at a young age that crying only meant more suffering and torment to come... I'll give you a reason to cry. Do you really to cry? Perhaps that's why I laugh and smile when I remember my childhood...

The Paper-Cutting People

They say pictures never lie... interesting enough, I find this statement to be a lie, indeed. Waking each morning, many plaster their masks tightly fit and convincing... convenient how quickly those scars and acid lines can fade from existence. Marching forward, driven to acquire something prettier, faster, easier, and more extravagant... the flocks and locks of sheered sheep and smoked cigarettes. The exhibition is flawed, like the toxic vapors of bleach burning the throat of clarity and consciousness... we can only prance and scamper so long without detection. If someone were to photograph those precious moments of masochistic embrace, the deviant truth could remain secret and precious... frozen in time, to be lived over and over in perfect rhythm. We see the mask on display and mindset behind the eyes... not the agony beneath, the truth and disdain. Those denizens appear calm and inviting, loving and accepting... the rabbit springs the trap, just in time for Sunday dinner. A photogenic predator aching to snatch and distend your still beating heart... candied innocence, the sweetest meat on which to feast. Of course this isn't always true, sometimes the truth is caught at a weary moment... you needn't be alarmed when you pass by a piece of shit, only when you step upon it.

Bookends

The Tutorial has ended... we have no more gifts for thee, bah rum bum bum bum. Indeed, two days in a row... this time it will be different. We won't speak in riddles or hide messages under soiled sheets... nor puzzles written in metaphor. Tonight, I will play the role of the listener and you, my readers, hopefully will fill the role as voice and consciousness. Of course, that does require some work and courage on your part. Over the years, you've watched as I've danced about making a fool of myself in my quest in understanding people, emotions, and friendships. I know this may seem trivial to most, but to someone with my limitations... no words could be less true. Constantly, I make efforts to engage in conversation with people and foster some type of friendship... most of the time this ends with disgust and immediate rejection. Although, sometimes I do receive some harsh words instead of being rudely ignored. On the very rare occasion, someone responds in kind and a seed is planted... which I quickly strangle to death in a fit of confusion and social oddity. The problem I seem to encounter most often is the chance to form some type of generic relationship... perhaps a great deal of that is from myself and the words I choose, but the other part is from the populace. It's common knowledge that the internet is filled with tons of fucked up predators looking for someone to hurt or take advantage of for their own lust and greed. Seeing how my only avenue to meet people is the internet, I'm already at a severe disadvantage... on the rare occasion I do go into public, I stare at the ground and never make eye contact. The truth of the matter is this... people terrify me. Despite the fear, for some ungodly reason I find myself continuing on this quest for knowledge and understanding.

So here we are... this conversation has been stated time and time before. Here is where I need help from you, the readers. What is the appropriate conversational link, indroduction or methodology to avoid being classified as one of the dangerous people? I speak politely and state my intentions... perhaps that is too honest and robotic? What is the social protocol or proper age group of people I should be trying to speak with? Where am I going wrong... is there an application format I should be following to discover human interaction and understanding?

Honestly, I am uncertain of the questions to ask of you... so I find myself here, just asking for any help in general. Thank you for taking the time to listen and hopefully someone comes forward with some helpful information. Until we meet again...

The Sensual Eel

There was a message waiting for me, void of content and listless... the words took shape and floated aimlessly towards the mustached women of tomorrow. Curiously, I planted and snipped the garden, long been since tended... awaiting the return of voices once meant for myself. Time and time again, what was is lost to be found by another... wicker basket picnics and strawberry viscera. My time here, although limited, is slowly crawling back to speed... separated from days and divided by nights, my thoughts have weakened and the lustered will has ebbed. Previous events have caused a shift in my medications... the popular thought of quelling the voices has only agitated my depression. The new thought is to treat the depression alone and allow the choir to regroup and harp mindlessly in unison... we'll tremble and gape at the drooling maw in awe. My hopes are to return to the "functional" level once teetered upon before this string of events crippled us... ten years living dead, betrayal, loss, and flea infestation. At least the fleas are gone and my companion and adviser is once again content... the lashings have been few, but he remains the guardian and I am subject to his bidding. Today is a new day of shedding... a day to wash away the collected ash and debris. I shall select my finest dress and lace it tight, as the preening and dancing enthrall the echo-less mind... with my braided beard and curls of yesteryear, the veins are ripped forth and I scamper with intent and delight. When the pieces are reassembled and routine restored, we'll still have the memories and the need of redemption... those lipstick stained teeth marks have tattooed themselves deeper than my fleshy cheek and neck. The sweat is still blinding and the humor in screaming misery still warms my chest... the price however, even though the sensations are delighted, is too much to grieve. It's not without thought... pleasure from the pain and suffering of others. The sadist in me, is the very same sadist in you... feeding each other, one jagged fingernail at a time.

Amputation 101

Progress - growth or development; continuous improvement.

As you can clearly see, my appearances have been neglected and my words diminished... my voice, however, is still intact. The infection has spread... it's gangrenous, viscid fluids now pump with voracity within. Despite the sickness, progress has been achieved... what we sever, shall wither or be reborn anew. I've been medicated for several months now for this gift of severe depression, but the desired results were void of manifestation... a time of soap-sud children and fecal pan drippings. The progress, as untasteful as it may seem, is related to hygiene... I have stated before about the intertwined struggle of mental health and personal hygiene. Putting aside the emphatic "Fuck You" 's, through this sickness I have developed the routine of bathing on a more frequent basis... please sit upright and look up as the shower of bile rinses your eyes. Granted, the progress is limited to once a week, which is considerably better than before... I know, I am aware of the disapproval, please stand in line behind the other violators and interlopers. Mary knew there was a price to be paid, but she never thought of the horrors that fell upon her marshmallow skin. As the opening definition states, it is progress nonetheless. I found this young lady on the internet the other day, that video blogged about her schizophrenia... her hair was perfectly styled, make-up lining every fold of her face and her teeth glistening in a string of white pearls. The monster rears his head and bellows a plea of vengeance... imagery of ribboned flesh caught in a wave of contempt and bloodshed. Mental illness has become a trend and fashion statement to the youth of today... if you take hallucinogens, you see and hear things that aren't there. It doesn't make you a fucking schizophrenic... I weep for the ignorance of the world and the sheer lack of compassion. Dwelling on this encounter has enraged me once again, schizophrenia is not a fucking game or a desired trait... it's a debilitating illness and a fucking nightmare. If you really had schizophrenia, you wouldn't be so picture perfect in appearance and hygiene, you wouldn't be IM'ing and LOL'ing with your friends and you wouldn't be working in a trendy coffeehouse... the lights are about to come on. You would have something like my life or worse which includes the luxuries as follows. You'd be rotting in your own filth with your hair tangled in webs of disarray. You'd wear the same clothes everyday even when they are soiled. You wouldn't have friends, because social situations and emotions confuse and choke the fucking life out of you. You would be sitting at a desk covered in paper plates, cigarette ashes and notes of "importance". You wouldn't have a job because you couldn't stand being around people and their lingering abrasive thoughts. You would see and hear things that aren't really there when you're sober and lucid, but you wouldn't clearly know the difference of fiction and reality... you wouldn't be the self involved piece of cat shit, that you clearly are. Time passes by and we move on... the simple joys and pleasures in life. All things considered and digested, I am still alive... we keep each other company with moments slipping forward. Tomorrow I have an appointment with my doctor in addition to my therapy... I have decided to go off of this medication and perhaps try something different. Of course, when the choir has regained their full strength, that opinion and thought may disappear entirely... you've been up to no good while I was away and now I'll give you a reason to cry. Welcome home, my lovelies...