Thursday, January 18, 2018


I look at Coco and think about death.
Little white hairs have started to mingle with the brown fur under her eyes.
I think about water, how me and this dog sitting on my lap are both made of water.
I feel the bones in her legs, I watch her eyes, I see the muscles in her neck.
I think about how we are full of water from everywhere, uncountable drops that form rivers oceans and lives condensing into steam and falling over and over again, becoming my sweat, my tears, my urine, oxidizing my skin into new wrinkles over the next 75 years.
I think about how our lives are just a different kind of tide, robots made of sacks of bone and water. Coco licks my face. I hold her face in my hands and stare into her eyes.
A green sea, My eyes are green too.
A tear runs down my cheek and she licks it off.

Tuesday, October 31, 2017


We are all made of the same stuff. billions of years of stars being born and exploding has somehow  included us in the astronomical, gastronomical digestion of the universe. Of course this doesn't extend only to humans but to all living things. Including the huge trail of ants crawling across my kitchen floor. When I was younger I would sit for hours and watch ants. I would try to imagine what it was like to be an ant, what it felt when the tiny reward centers lit up in its tiny brain.
Now with what appears to be over a thousand of them creating a line from the trash can to a hole under the sink, I was feeling a bit less empathetic.  I related this to the person who Iwas talking to on the phone.
“Kill them” she said matter-of-factly. As if it was obvious that the arrangement of star shit that me and her were made up from was vastly superior to the slightly smaller simpler arrangement that made up the ants. I grabbed a bottle of dish soap and spilled it on the hole under the sink. It swallowed up the ants like a dam breaking over a small town. I then grabbed a spray bottle and sprayed the line from the trash to the sink like a plane dropping bombs on fleeing refugees. And the tiny moving black dots turned into not moving black dots. I was a little disturbed at how I felt almost nothing while doing this. Was this how dictators felt when they killed people? Was it because I was literally  so high above them that I could simply turn them off forever without a second thought?
I pulled out the trash and began to clean the whole kitchen. As I mopped the floor I felt something on my bicep. It wasn’t  pain. More of a feeling of slight discomfort. I looked at my bicep and saw a single ant trying to dig its mandibles into my skin. Without thinking I said “good for you”.
The ant reached me. It made me feel something and I had to acknowledge it. I then put on the sink. It was already partially poisoned from the cleaning spray I used. It wriggled in a way that I could not deny was pain. Yet I hesitated to kill it. If I put it out of its misery i would have to acknowledge that it was capable of misery. That I was a source of its misery.
I ignored it.
I cleaned off the counter around the ant. Sweeping crumbs into my palms that were 10 times bigger than it.
when I was younger i would take some bread to the ant hills and sprinkle crumbs on them. I would watch them dance excitedly as they collected the crumbs.
I wiped up the trail of dead ants on the floor and tossed them in the trash. All while the single Ant on the sink counter writhed in pain. Finally i couldn't take anymore and I pressed on it hard with my finger, ending the ant’s pain. I flicked it into the trash with the rest of them and continued living the rest of my life.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

To and Fro

I try to do one thing, and I end up giving up and starting something else, either because it is too hard or because I have lost interest in the thing I was doing, or sometimes it is because something more interesting has popped into my head and I will suddenly divert all of my attention towards this new exciting project!
 Until of course I am distracted by something else. the cycle seems perpetual unless I'm medicated.

I no longer have issues with the fact that I'm only functional member of society unless I have amphetamines running through my veins. I no longer take issue with the fact that I will need help sometimes to get what I want. I'm less irked by the fact that defining factors of my personality are easily redefined and "remedied" by a pill.

what bothers me is that I'm naturally ambitious, 
and it is a quality that I have learned to tie down and strangle with a thread of past failures and disappointments. I ride on a seesaw of passionate enthusiasm juxtaposed with numbing crushing disappointment. the ups and downs of life are chafing me. 
and apparently talcum powder causes cancer. 
some people are better at making chafing look like a swagger, I am not one of them now. but on the next swing up I might feel differently.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Temporary Center

I stepped out of a hot shower this morning  to find light coming from the window making all the steam in the small bathroom glow.
It moved and rippled with every move I made, and as I raised my hand the steam around it floated off and away from it, pushed away by my body heat. Suddenly I was a Poseidon at the center of a vast ocean. Every breath I took caused a tide, and with the smallest gesture little hurricanes burst from my fingertips. As I dried myself off and began to dress, specks of dust came floating from my clothes. the dust mingling with the steam created small solar systems before my eyes, I gently spun and the tiny stars spun around me. I became the center of a galaxy in my aunt’s tiny bathroom.

The world does not revolve around me. I allow my insignificance to be a factor of liberation rather than discontent to counter  my egocentric mindset. But all the points on a scale are  subjective. Everything is subjective except facts. Facts are like physical objects, they can be buried, crushed, or burnt, but their mass will remain constant and they could never truly disappear or change. Truth on the other hand, is a concept, Truth is pliable, personal, perishable, part of how we see ourselves. And while the fact remains that I am an insignificant speck in a vast, cold and uncaring universe. My truth changed for a moment today, and I enjoyed being me.

Monday, March 7, 2016


I was raised believing I was incredible.
 never in my life have I doubted that my family doesn't love me or isn't incredibly proud of me.
 perhaps that is what's missing. perhaps a lack of shame or urgency has stagnated me. 
I've broken down because I have ignored the "check engine" light in the back of my mind because I never thought I should worry about it.
 the fantasy version I've constructed of myself can do no wrong, but this facade is cracked like my windshield.
 there are things about myself that I don't like.
 I don't like that I distract myself the moment I am faced with an obstacle, 
I don't like that I've become so hungry for affection that I'm willing to manipulate people to get it.
 I don't like that I catch myself feeling empty and thinking that other people can compensate for that. 
 mostly what I don't like about myself is simply that,
 I don't like myself.
I have been fired from my job,
I have been falling behind in school,
 and feeling so lonely that I've resorted to using dating websites and hook-up apps.
 the "check Engine light" has been replaced by an unhealthy rattling screeching sound, 
  my trunk wont close, the crack in my windshield seems to grow a little every day, my headlights are dimming on a dark road, and I'm pretty sure there is something wrong with my blinkers... 
 It is time to either get a full overhaul or get a new car, and although my ACTUAL car has all these problems, I don't have the money to do anything about it.
 but as for me, my money is time, and I think its Time I spent on myself.
 maybe get a few loose screws tightened, re-calibrate, brighten up, pop a few dents, god knows my stick shift needs some attention... 
but mostly its time to fill up on gas, and make a decision on where this moving wreck is headed. 

Wednesday, November 25, 2015


Last night I had a dream that I was dressed up in an egg costume and I was singing "I'm Eggory the 8th" I was also standing on a stool with a noose around my neck. 

When I woke up I was worried that this dream might an omen that I would die today.
I get in the shower and rinse the inside of an empty shampoo bottle to get the very last essence of shampoo onto my head, I manage to get some soulless suds out of it, I find the discarded nozzle and in a maneuver equivalent to toddler CPR I manage to get a few drops of the pure stuff out of it. 
Oh yeah now we're cookin! I ponder my dream and I think to myself how statistically speaking it is now less likely that I will die today, because what are the odds that I would die on a day that my subconscious decided to go Edgar Allen Pun on me?
 I then come to a worrisome conclusion that statistics don't actually affect chance or vice versa, as I flop around trying to get conditioner out of my eye, I think of how trying to predict the future with statistics is now just science backed superstition, another attempt to control this crazy world around us, like religion. 

As I climb out of the shower I think of how we come into this world with no real control of what happens around us, until we learn how to speak. It is now that we can ask for things, 

"Mommy I'm hungry!" 

"Daddy I want out of this bath!" 

Suddenly we can affect the world around us! But then we grow up, and we no longer see our parents as all-powerful cookie and bath time suppliers, but our mentality of asking doesn't really change, except now that our parents aren't masters of our fate then who is? 

 I go downstairs to the kitchen and pour myself some cereal with raisins. We never really stop treating the universe like a parent, some of us pray to it, asking the big Daddy in the sky for help, some try to predict the universe by its behavior: Like an astute child might know that mommy isn't so nice when she has the "grownup bottle", so it's time to play quietly in their room, AKA looks like a storm is coming, better get to higher ground AKA time to get the f*^%k out of Syria, 
and some of us assume that we are just children raised by children who have been here longer, Walking around on a great big beautiful ball of mud. 
And we might as well sit down and make a nice mud castle or two before we become part of the mud ourselves. 

I finish my cereal and take out the garbage. I decide that I will probably not die today, but that doesn't mean I won't, just like any other day really. 
So I might as well wash the dishes and pretend to be master of my fate.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015


I wake up feeling like I should go back to sleep. My hand slithers out from the protection of my blanket to seek my phone, it is exactly 7AM. I roll over attempting to delay consciousness. Too late though as I've already started thinking, The neurons in my brain have started chirping excitedly like an overly enthusiastic flock of sparrows, everything I need to do today lights up behind my eyes like Christmas lights in November.

 I shield myself with funny pictures and memes on my phone, muting the chattering birds and dimming the electric pissing reindeer. My escapism is interrupted by my peripheral vision, the blinds on my window have sliced the sun light hitting my wall, cutting it into little rows of rectangles, new rectangles form one after the other on my wall, with a gentle subtlety they fade in as the sun rises from behind an apartment building.

 I realize that my comprehension of time was woefully mechanical, associating time with the rhythmic ticking of clocks, but now as I watch the sunlight trickle into my room like a warm flow of honey, I realize time isn't a beat, it's a crescendo, one that will never abate... 

I decide to go put pants on.