good morning, bad night

i've finally gotten a few excellent pieces of advice lately. one lady named kena, this morning, told me about poor kids radio. i have to look them up when i get time. last night was extremely windy and cold, i woke up with a throat full of dirt, it hurts to swallow. i was in so much fucking pain last night, i thought i was losing my mind. good god, that's an ass. sorry, distractions. anyway.

near the end of every month, when i'm waiting for my disability check... every month now, for a year and a half, near the end of each month, i meet someone who says they'll help me. but when i get my disability check, it goes to them, and i'm left with nothing, and the money didn't even last till the fifth. i'm left starving, sober, and having to panhandle every fucking day. why does this keep happening, why can't i stop meeting people who demand my money, why can't i say no? because i fucking hate saying no, and i fucking hate money. exchanging money for a place to live, that concept is so fucking retarded to me, i'd honestly rather die. i'd rather just not be in your world, because i'm sick of having to pay for shit you shouldn't have to pay for. no one understands this, no one gives a shit, but anything you turn into ash or turds, or anything you sleep on or in, should not cost fucking money. that way everyone would have a fair shot at starting their fucking day, wouldn't you say? if everyone started off their day with about ten points, every day... if you did something nice for someone other than yourself, you get a point. seems simple enough to me. humanity could finally be free to unite, rather than letting their opinions and beliefs keep them divided. can this not fucking happen? ever? am i just never allowed to have money in my hand? to have the few reasonable things i need to live each day? and you excuse this world as fair? how can you possibly be that stupid?

i'm really hoping this month might be different, but from the looks of this city, i'm seriously doubting it. all people are simply out to fuck you, to steal from you, and to not care about you. making friends costs way too much money these days, and having friends is just... fucking stupid. constantly asking myself, waiting, wondering when they're going to give up, take my cash, and disappear. when they're going to treat me rudely. the first sign of them shaking their head no at me. that look in their eyes when they've made their choice, right before the mask changes. that moment when the disappointment transfers. i've seen it way too many times to give a shit anymore. you wonder why i fucking hate you all, why i won't even give you a chance. my trust has been buttfucked by too many assholes. twist that through the little black hole in your mind. humans make me fucking sick.

i thought about writing a poem called 'owning humans'. trying to remember strings of words that i have thought, is like digging up fossils, trying to extract their dreams in liquid form, and putting them in bottles for the rich to call 'perfume'. piecing together my thoughts is like building a puzzle, but rather than cut out pieces, it's pieces of broken mirror. anyone can appear broken in that moment.

i know other people have made it through this shit with their lives, but i don't yet understand how. i read marilyn manson's book. i have yet to read nikki sixx's book. i have heard the stories. i know this is possible. and it has to happen soon. will i ever get to tell my story. will anyone ever care. would i still give a shit anyway.

i picture the next time a girl tries to touch me, if i shudder at the touch, would it scare her and make her leave.

i actually can't picture the next time a girl might try to touch me. i honestly doubt it will ever happen again. i know exactly how invisible i am in your eyes. why do i feel so fucking insane. have i already lost too much. why is my heart, why does my heart feel like this, i've never felt this before, and i've been through some pretty horrid shit, but it feels like an eternal nightmare black hole of misery on one side, and agony on the other. but at the same time, i know you cheery happy fucks never like to hear that downer shit, so what's the point of telling the story. i don't have much faith in you anymore. if my story would reflect that, and explain that, would it matter. would anyone give half a flabby fuck.

coming from a life where you've never had any worthwhile friends. where you've wasted twenty years of your life doing what you never should have done. watching your dreams waste away on the back burner for twenty years. because people kept telling you there was other shit you needed to do.. for them. 'take me to work, get me food, i'm late for my appointment'. every moment, every question, every time i was asked, i knew, as hard as a rock in the center of my brain, trying to pull the light switch string, i knew harder than concrete that i was wasting that moment, that i was needed elsewhere, that i was supposed to be doing something else. this gravitational pull, tilting the earth, but never quite dropping me next to the right person. people don't fucking understand this, but it's not easy for me to make friends. i've been antisocial since birth. i come from a family where i was never allowed to speak, to be heard. i come from a family who was really really good at talking to people, but no fucking clue what they were saying, but they'd sure shove their opinion down your throat against your will. they were good at it.

she'll never look at me.
she'll never see me.
just stop fucking looking.
keep your eyes fucking closed.
metal in your ears, smoke in your lungs, misery in your pants.

and i should be wearing a skirt. i fucking hate these pants. who would put this uncomfortable shit on their skin, and then demand that everyone else do it as well. how far out of their minds were they?

i can still taste dirt on my tongue. woke up in a pile of leaves that resembled a park in new hampshire, even though i was laying on a concrete sidewalk in los angeles. apparently god felt the need to blow every piece of trash on this earth at me last night. i was screaming at people.

thought about doing this bit on stage.

i can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt... i know you guys don't want to hear this, you'll do everything you can to deny it, i know, but i can prove that your god does not exist. i know, i know, relax, you're just my hallucinations anyway, we'll get through this. but come on, open your mind for just a second here. i can prove, i have proof, that your god never existed. and i feel if i say this, that we can finally let it go and move on. learn to love eachother again, instead of keeping excuses between us. we're all assholes right now, i get it, but i think we could all put down our swords if we realized we no longer had a reason to hold them. would you like to know how i can prove that your god never existed? because...

factoid number one: there are seven billion people on this planet.
factoid number two: one seventh of them are without a home.
factoid number three: ...the wind blows.

that right there is literally all you need to say to disprove the existence of a god.

i'm not apologizing for that one. there's no way i'd be sorry for that one. i don't feel bad, i feel fuckin' great. lighter, happier, and fuckin' free. infact, i could repeat that.

i've begged your god to stop the wind, to turn up the thermostat, to leave me the fuck alone.

when i was eight years old, i actually gave the one honest prayer of my entire life for my grandmother to stop screaming at my mother. i took an hour long walk around the block, and when i came back, i could still hear the screaming from the street. from the entrance to the apartments, i could hear my grandmother smashing dishes on the wall. just psychotic, and my mother still having to sit there and take that shit. as soon as i was old enough, and after that prayer opened my eyes to the truth, that i was all alone on this earth, i started defending my mother against my evil grandmother. i was lost in no fairytale, i saw it get about as real as it could. my mother never deserved that abuse. but she loved her mother. as a child, that broke my fucking heart. no matter what you do to help someone you love, they'll always choose someone else over you. always. if you had money, you could put money on it, and then you'd have more money. if i were smart enough, that's how i could have gotten rich. betting people that my grandmother would scream at my mother today, place your bets! fuck it, i win again!

i'll get you next time, gadget!

it was always my mother and i vs the world. and now she's dead.

my grandmother died in march of this year, at the age of eighty five. thirty years older than my mother.
my mother died at the end of may, this year, at the age of fifty five.

you tell me: was it worth it?

does life mean anything? does it matter at all? or is it simply matter?

i know one thing, your dollars don't mean shit in the scheme of things. ask carl sagan's ghost. i'm sure he's still counting galaxies. i can still hear his voice, saying 'billions and billions', and my mother laughing at it. echoes of sanity, once within the walls of delusion, now free to roam... and count.

yeah. life's never been fair, and it's not supposed to be. i should have killed myself years ago. how can i possibly dream of starting a metal band, if i'm never allowed to finish a fucking sentence?

that is not a hypothetical or rhetorical question. it's not a philosophical debate, and it doesn't have a fucking price tag.

if my dreams succeed, the last price tag you'll ever see is the one on your toe. hopefully, you'll thank me for that. but more than likely, you'll hate me thousands of years into the future. blaming me for the loss of... whatever. not caring what i've already lost. if i made it big, the person who would have been most proud of me, my only true lifelong friend... my mother... in my mind, i can see her back there in tucson, sitting in her bed, sun shining behind her, and she's sticking her fist in the air. 'that's my son!'.

how can i dream of starting a metal band, if i've never gotten to finish a sentence?
how can i dream of being heard, if i've never been heard enough to even get used to the concept?

my entire life, every fucking day of my life, people constantly talk over me. interrupting me. shaking their head no at me. telling me what i should be, how i should act, how i should dress, how to talk to people, what words to say...

saying things like this... infact, i wanted to do this bit on stage as well...

next time i mention to someone that i really need therapy, and before i can get the word therapy out, they've already started shaking their head no at me, and they tell me 'dude, you don't need therapy'... i'm going to calmly stab them in the throat with my pen, and when all the idiots get involved thinking it's their business... i can just show them this blog post. this blog post is my proof, my defense, and all the reason i need. and if the judge has an iq above the temperature of the room, i'm quite confident that he'll say 'yup, nope, he's right, let him go'.

lawyer gets a confused look on his face, and the judge says 'he warned the guy! i mean, technically, he warned the guy a thousand times, it's just too bad knowledge isn't cloned, too'.

truth.

like the paddles zapping you back to life.

frank zappa you back to life.

i miss my mama.

one christmas, my mother waited till midnight on christmas eve, outside a tree lot, to get a free christmas tree. just so i would wake up the next morning and see a christmas tree. decorated and everything. that was my mother.

god, i miss you, mama. i fuckin' don't know what to do without you.

people constantly have to talk over me. every fucking day, just talking over me. they let me get about five words out, and their mouths just open up and this loud gibberish starts pouring out like toxic turds, clearly not giving a fuck what i was saying, just telling me the words in their minds. incoherent, psychotic, deaf, dumb, and blind. no wonder, look at the drugs you're on. i could have told you that, but apparently you need an imaginary god to tell you. the only way you can be convinced of anything is by your own delusions. how fucking sad is that.

i can hear all your diagnoses spewing out of your mind toward me, though.

'he's justifying his reality'...
'he's making excuses'...
'he thinks he's better than me'...
'he actually thinks he's sane'...
'he doesn't understand that there are other people on this planet'...

buddy, i'm waiting for a doctor to truly analyze my brain, so he can tell you what's in it, and then i'll pay your god to back up that message, and then we can finally all smile when you've finally shut your fucking mouth.

my mama had a pin that said 'closed minds usually have open mouths'.

invisibility. in a plastic world full of porches and people with that look on their face. i don't think they realize that i know exactly what thought is in their minds at that point. i can read it on the surface of their eye like an acid trip caressing the tongue. i know exactly what you're thinking. this perfectly coiffed model idiot just walked past me in this starfucks for example, holding his latté... he gives this slow eyed look out the window, and then turns his head just like the models do in the movies, with that slow blink, half look, direction change, you think i don't know what that thought is? it's fucking obvious! it's uglier than i am! this is verbatim what's going through your mind at that moment...

'i wonder who all is looking at me'.

you wanna know one difference between me and you?

i'll let you take a wild guess, but i'm sure you'll misunderstand the purpose, cause nineteen ninety nine really fucked you guys up, especially those of you who never studied your history, but come on, give it an honest try.

the black trench coat is a dead give away.

and if you say 'columbine' one more fucking time, i'm gonna stab you in the throat.

no, see, long before the matrix made a compromising superhero out of neo...
before two teenage idiots gave trench coats a bad name on cnn...
before michael moore made any fucking documentaries in bowling alleys...

trench coats existed.

if you watch the movie 'the crow', with brandon lee? trench coat. you'll notice at least one other connection, if you're paying attention, there. but that movie came out in nineteen ninety four.

back in nineteen ninety one, there was a comedian recording a comedy show called 'revelations' in london... he wore that trench coat best.

and that's the sign you need to look for. fuck those teenage columbine idiots, they were morons! this should be obvious to you, but since you flunked history, i'll give you a little catchup. not the condiment, you idiot. pay attention.

rewinding back through history. whether it be history channel, discovery channel, the show cops, or old westerns, whenever you see a trench coat show up... you idiots are looking for the wrong shit under that coat.

you shouldn't be looking for weapons of violence, and shotguns, and crap like that.

you should be looking for a certain... i don't know... i would use the word 'swagger', except that some idiot named ice cube eternally fucked that one up. now that word is dripping with oil. but you look for a certain attitude. you look for that symbol, that sign, that eye. almost like he's dancing within the coat. can you see it yet?

when he's the man who wears it best... that's all you need to know. so everything that happened after nineteen ninety nine... you can just let that shit go now. agreed?

okay, so... the difference between me and mister model douchebag looking out the window?

i'm obviously not wondering who's looking at me, without acknowledging that they are, just feeling those eyes on your skin, knowing that they're there, wanting it, needing it, never deserving it. i know everything behind it. you can debate that all you want, but you're only wasting your own time. why would you give a fuck about what i see anyway. exactly, you don't. i don't give a fuck who's looking at me in that way, i don't give a fuck who thinks who is better than who, and i certainly don't give a fuck about people like you. whenever i do look at a woman, i see their eyes never even contemplating to move in my direction, cause they're too concerned with whoever they think is better than me. that's exactly how retarded your society is. i'm not just antisocial. i'm the enemy of your society. i'm only here to end it, so we can move on.

your eyes are the most dishonest part of you. the more plastic your skin, the more revealing your eyes. cause there's less and less in there to see. i know what's in your mind. and i know what goes through your mind when you actually do lay eyes on me. cause it's only for a split second before they gracefully raise to go out the door. tell me this isn't your exact thought... even if it's in less words with less effort than this (forgive me, i'm a writer, after all).

'he's ugly trash'...
'he's not worth my glimpse/glance'...
'i shouldn't be looking at that'...
'why do those losers look at me'...
'what's with the columbine getup'...
'does he have a twelve gauge under there'...
'should i be worried'...
'don't even look at me'...
'i'm beautiful, you're so not'...

before you debate that, get a lawyer and a psychiatrist to analyze that, and then get them to analyze how honest you are with yourself about the world you live in. i'm sure an iq check wouldn't hurt.

anyway. that's my morning. trying to stay out of the freezing wind. out of your god's wrath on homeless people.

it's you who says we have to sleep outside, while you're in your comfortable house, watching people play poker on television, not even giving one honest thought toward the fact that because of you, there is an entire seventh of this human race, who are sleeping outside. one billion people, out of seven billion people... sorry, your calculator is outdated, let's put it this way. there are seven people standing on this tiny little planet. five of them are happily watching espn on their big screen television. one of them is responsible for keeping this money shit going, so they're actually in some dark satanic dungeon right now, chanting rituals and drinking goat blood, so we're not going to worry about him for the time being. anyway. out of seven people standing on this tiny little earth, five of them are actually sitting on a comfy, warm couch, being lazy, and thinking they've earned it, that they deserve it.

one of those people is sitting outside, starving, freezing his ass off, and the only thought you can fart in his direction, is that he should get a job like the rest of you, so he can afford his own life. you're unaware of the fact that we're fed up with this money horse shit, we don't want a boss poking their fingers in our chest constantly, we're tired of being told what to do, and having no real answer as to what is acceptable on this earth. no living standards, half of you are on the wrong drugs, lost in a haze of confusion with a lack of logic or education. all you can think, is that the homeless dude should get a job. but he's going to have to work for guy number four, and guy number four is an asshole with anger issues who works in a slaughter house because he likes killing things to take his anger out, but he gets bored with being stuck in the same life every day, so that extra added anger he has to take out on you, aka the homeless dude trying to get a job. just to afford a warm bed to sleep on every night, and something to eat when they wake up the next morning. and you justify that with excuses, calling it fair, and not realizing how wrong you are. did you not hear me say that we're fed up with this horse shit, the fact that our only option in life is to get a job working for some asshole who treats us like shit, for a minimal wage that only usually barely affords the rent for an apartment, meanwhile we're starving every day, we spend most of our day slaving away in a seven eleven, so we don't even get to enjoy sitting in our home... what the fuck is the point, why do you think that's so great, and why can't some of us have another option in life? those are not rhetorical questions, and if you don't have the answers, i'll fuckin' think them up, publish them, copyright them, and charge you every dollar you have to read them. because i fucking hate you, and i want you to know that. you haven't deserved that comfy couch and television combo this whole time, simply because one out of those seven people is not enjoying their time on this planet. you're ignoring that, which makes you the problem. you stand between us on the street, and the dude in the dungeon who's controlling how hard the wind blows on us. there is no god, i already proved that. so the only one to blame... is not me, for not getting a job... it's you, for having a job. for supporting this system one day too many. actually, several decades too many, but who's counting. i've never given much of a shit about the past, i'm much more concerned with what comes next, cause i haven't had fun yet. i haven't had one good day doing what i was supposed to do yet. especially if i'm considering doing it with the people i'm supposed to do it with, cause having fun and being social are two different things for me. you'll never understand that. and you'll just continue to call me the lazy one. may i remind you, i have no couch, asshole. i have no television. and i'm in so much pain, it hurts to even sit down, because all i can sit on is concrete and cold hatred. you trash, your lies, your alcohol, your fears, your hypocrisy. and i know you still don't know what that word means, but you sure get furious everytime you hear it.

i gotta go, i've got a bowl to smoke thanks to kena, and i've got a tooth falling out, and dirt to cough out of my throat. at least it's not as bad as when i saw rage against the machine in phoenix. our snot was brown. piles of kleenex with what looked like worm turds in them. that was a good night. at least i still had four walls to go home to. hopefully the wind has died down, and the temperature has risen a little, and i can actually light the bowl.

this is me. clearly, i'm not you.

oh, yeah, and the dude in the dungeon? well... just watch 'truman show' and get back to me after you actually read this, cause if you can't at least be not lazy enough to read my blog, why should i be not lazy enough to work for you selling starfucks products. think about it, asshole. phil collins already wrote that fuckin' song, you just haven't heard it yet, but you'll blame that on me, it's all my fault. that's called a scapegoat, and you need to stop that one, too. it's your god who's telling you to act this way toward other people. fellow humans sharing this planet with you. greed, selfishness, beliefs, they all need to go. you're to blame, good god that's an ass, jesus lady, what do you feed that thing? sorry. why the fuck did i come to cancer city. plastic central. hateville, usa. why, lord, why.

you'll never realize...
your god makes you superstitious.
your god leaves you buried in tradition out of fear.
your god makes you blame me for all your problems, thus making me your scapegoat, your slave, your puppet for abuse.
your god makes you lie, spewing illogical nonsense, but not responsible enough to practice what you preach, which makes you a hypocrite.
your god tells you to trust your government, thus we're all trapped in this never ending slavery machine, spinning away, spewing out blood and bones with every turn, no dollar ever trickling its way down to those of us who need it most, but want it least. and you'll never understand this enough to give us another option. that's why i'm here.

that's just one of the numerous reasons i hate you. whether you deny it or not, my hatred is justified. more so than your excuses in support of a monetary society. basically, on the scale of things, i'm trying to say you need to stop being so stupid and blind. before long, you won't have a choice. you'll have to leave your comfy home behind and learn how to live life like we have. because that's what you deserve. judgement day is coming. but i'm not so sure your god's going to be on your side, and i'm not so sure it's going to be god. the fact that money is the root of all evil, but you guys never took that thought far enough to see the source of it, the fact that money says 'in god we trust' on it, but there's a 'separation' between church and state for whatever reason... it needs to be said, but church is state, and you're in denial. the writers of your bible were nothing more than capitalists. it was a scam. you bought a lie, and you're drowning in shame. i'm sorry, but it's not my fault. that was your choice. and whether you like it or not, your bad choice was responsible for my existence. simply because i never liked authorities poking their fingers in my chest. i'll be holding my breath till you understand that. if money is the root of all evil, and if money buys you god, then there is no god. you bought a product from the wrong salesman. who, like my drug addict uncle, just so happened to be the best salesman out of the two. he's been trying harder, for longer, and you didn't catch that. didn't they even put that in a movie? let me guess, you didn't see that one, did you? yeah... choice. free will.

the demise of unity.
the death of connection.

what a fucking joke. the american dream, 'yeah, come over here, get a job, and live your dreams'...

said by a dude with fresh native american blood on his hands. you don't even wonder why we call them 'native americans'. what the fuck that term really means. indians, and the confusion of the two. god, you're stupid. you're twentieth generation stupid. so you're twentieth generation to blame. the longer you support this system, the more wrong you are. after humanity finally unites, and just before i die... all i want is to take a breath.

kinda like that boondock saints joke. genie grants three wishes, black man asks for all his people to be back in africa and happy, mexican asks for all his people to be back in mexico and happy, white dude asks for a coke.

your mistake. and a big one at that. not that you'd ever claim responsibility. figure that, terrorists are actually more responsible than you. they claim responsibility for their attacks. but you on the other hand. god, that delusion must be thick.

i want off this fucking planet so goddamn bad, i can taste the storms on jupiter.

will you ever learn. will you ever care. will you ever let that credit card fall to the ground. and embrace your fellow human. it's been two thousand years, what do you say? hugging time? forgiveness? my head keeps feeling like it's going black. my tooth is falling out. so loose i can feel air going through it whenever i move my tongue.

i miss my mama. i could tell her about my tooth, and she would care. whether just the look in her eye, i knew. she cared. she was the only person i could ever tell half this shit to. i miss you, mama. i can't drive fifty five.

but apparently you did.

enough rambling. time to dig dirt out of my eyeballs, wipe the tears and snot, and dream of a restroom of my own.

back when the idea of a monetary society was first suggested, i wish i had been there to say 'what a fucking joke!'. yeah, make people hate and fear eachother through generations of plastic... the falsening of our very flesh.

genetically modified foods for genetically modified people who look more like the mannequins than the mannequins look like us. which came first, the human or the mannequin? hmm...

i didn't need to be genetically modified. i've mutated. evolved.

apologize for what? tell you what, this is your new job, your duty in life, so says god himself...

you're responsible for the apologies from now on. get to work.

...
and one more thing, on a side note... this is seeming like a very weird day. after yesterday when i met the singer of la guns, and then that brutally cold and windy night last night... it seems like i'm seeing more famous people today. before that, i had this veil over my eyes, and i wasn't recognizing anyone. it also seems like more people are watching me for some reason. looking at me more than usual. i know how invisible i usually am.

how do i meet the people i need to meet? such an alien concept to me. would i even recognize them?

otep shamaya. maria brink. brian posehn. i know they all live here, but i think the only one i'd actually recognize is brian posehn. i already recognized andy dick, but then again that dimple chin is pretty fucking obvious. who on this earth can't recognize andy dick? see, that's not saying much. okay, brain, shut the fuck up now. publish, post, close, shut down, pack up, walk out, smoke. now!