Last Summer, I was trying to wash the morbid poetry off my recently-diagnosed schizophrenic brother’s walls, threatening to total one of my father’s cars with myself inside it, bawling like a child in front of strangers at my grandpa’s funeral, fasting uncomfortably, involved with severely warped individuals and pacing back and forth at a hospital after my little brother had been driven into a tree.
It’s a good thing, not having misadventures up on my thought log, this time around.
What is rotating around my head like stock marquees aren’t what I’d call necessarily interesting to other people. For one thing, I’m a little bitter that pouring my heart and soul into a written entry will generate 0 comments, but slapping up some photos will keep them rolling in days after. Suddenly, I’m getting a dozen notices that so-and-so wants to private message me.
“Okay, we should be friends, now” is about the most pretentious, one-sided idea anyone can propose. And just as equally bloated a question, whatever happened to someone else, catching my attention? Where are your goddamn dreams? I write brainteasers and spill my psyche until it’s dangerous – what the hell is pumping blood through your body? You wanna give someone a fuckin’ clue?
Then just get the fuck out. **throws you your handle from her friends list** Here, take your shit and leave.
“What are you thinking” is one of those antics corralled with female behavior that I must own up to. I saw a senior citizen stand with his arms at his hips, as he looked out from our little rest stop over the Shiawassee River. All by himself like that, having lived so much longer than I have, it was enough of a glimpse to make me want to ask the dreaded, “What are you thinking?” as our car passed him by. His brain looked so much more interesting than everything else around me at that moment in time, like I could smell his skull glowing inside.
You hear some of the best stories from people who are running out of them.
You take in some of the best breaths when you realize you might not have many more.
If I were a ghost, I’d see some interesting things. Places you scan but don’t normally access for one reason or another, like car accidents. My translucent body would be sitting passenger side of an upside down car, taking in the damage and hoping for a conscious driver. I’d ride fire engines and trail police cars. Other ghosts would haunt Florida beach houses and call me nuts.
It’s an exciting time to be alive, with our currently divided nation. Newspapers are printing different renditions of wedding cake grooms holding hands with other grooms, the political race involves choosing one of two undesired candidates (hint hint – if someone would care to send folding money my way, I may* be easily persuaded), humans are on the verge of pumping out souls with science, and – oh my gosh – Britney Spears is like, engaged!
“W00t! W00t!” as the fucktards would say.
“That was an inappropriate remark. My son is a fucker and it does not imply that he is a tard.”
Yeah – when the imaginary townspeople in my head start talking, it’s time to close up shop.