Archive for dark comedy

That Night–Happy Anniversary–Desperation’s no Reason to Keep at It

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 10, 2013 by JC

I’ve been struggling at this, and I think I’ve got it now, my Mrs.

Flowers flatly fell to the ground that night, that night when that light, that hot garage light lit our love. That night when the wind washed the trees, swept the leaves, and cooled July to our comfort–we both remarked on it that night, remember?

You remember, don’t you? Promises abandoned but no harm just laughs, nervous, socially agreeable laughs. We laughed about how we always said we’d stop promising but kept on with it, how we kept wasting time, to translate. Seeds budded, falling flat. Falling flat but looking alive, promising, because we, you and I, were alive, promising.

But we’ve stayed together, and all that promise is gone. Now all we have are our fat, our regrets, our hopes of life beyond life, and each other.

Happy Anniversary!

Ricky’s Dead, Time for a Shop

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 10, 2013 by JC

I came home one night, hard day in wake, expecting to have salad with my steak. I got to the kitchen—having clitted and clatted up the stony steps—and all I saw was an expired spring mix; no steak, no chicken, no salmon! I opened up the spring mix to make sure there was no hope for it, bent down to a suitable distance for testing, sniffed…

So the lettuce smelled like when Ricky took that jizzy fart in his unwashed mouth and plugged it up along with his nose. The stench escaped through his eyes, must have been! Ricky would buttress me there if only to herald his lung space but now he’s dead. Died that same time. Needed to be uncouthest. Couldn’t be anything-elsest, Ricky? I wondered if the gases were noxious or if Ricky wasn’t the athlete he said he was—if his known muff diving failed to live up to his alleged deep-sea diving.

“Lettuce for dinner? Is there nothing else? No peas, beans, oats?” I led.

“Check the ice box and the pantry,” she said.

She read my face, my slanted mouth and furrowed brows, and knew she—cause of the present association, her native herring and bean-induced flatulence co-enablers of Ricky’s last oral stench—should say something. She, after all, likely finished the oats, the beans, and the peas. The oats, the peas, the beans if you like allusions. Played that one in band—really tested my nine-and-ten-year-old lungs. Repugnant Ricky had the same breathing tests I did, plus one yes that jizzy one too many. Hope it at least occurred to him at the end that a hard jaunt would have been better.

Change her and Minimize the Collateral Damage of her Sociopathy

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2013 by JC

Doop bee doopbah

That’s the kind of shit we used to fill our “awkward” silences with, the silences when we’d be staring at each other and I’d be content to continue doing that, stirrings of love above and below my belt, and she’d be pathetically self-conscious about not having anything brilliant to say or not hearing anything brilliant from me, not hearing anything consistent with her fantasy of joining up with some pompous, pontificating piece of abjectly cuckoldable shit* who never shuts up, who never allows her a moment to peer into her vacuous, ultimately sociopathic self; who rarely suspects there’s something wrong and says nothing when he does. To her, every silence is awkward because she is awkward, and so she must always be in “conversation.” That’s what happens when you have a poorly developed personality and you need thoughts and words and images and entertainments injected into your brain from the outside. It’s what happens when you have no sense of direction, no sense of personal responsibility for making lists mentally or graphically and getting the shit on them done. If you’re bored, you’re boring and liable to fuck things up for other people. That may damn well be the most verisimilitudinous half-cliche I’m aware of. If you can’t find a way of amusing yourself, and you project this need constantly onto others, and say things like, “I don’t know how I could have acted differently,” in reference to abusing your open-relationship privileges, which specifically restricted serious feelings and repeated events, or “you should read so that we have more to talk about,” you erode all possibility of earning MY respect, and in my eyes degrade yourself contemptibly.

Your dependency on feedback from the outside is your death to me, your cession of all affections and affinities. When you can’t figure out organically what you ought to do, when there’s nothing organic beneath your facade, then fuck off from me. If that’s the state of your soul, then you are pathetic and you should stay the fuck away from people who are capable of self-reliance and clean morals, capable of planning and living their lives intelligently, doing and wanting to do what’s right for them and those around them, because you’ll risk fucking up this certainty, this second-nature showing of real poise that marks the self-actualized and -actualizing. You should stay the fuck away indeed, but you won’t because you want to control those characteristics; you want something outside to hold on to because you can’t or won’t find anything valuable within yourself.

Serial monogamy is a disgusting, pitiful symptom of these deficiencies of the soul, and if you see it, my like-existing, like-minded, like-self-loving friends, run away–especially if she tempts you to be like her; especially if she clamors for your approval of this completely fucked approach to relationships; especially if she seeks or offers justifications for her odd, disloyal, scatter-shit behavior, comments, and patterns of thought instead of seeking heavy chemical interventions combined with heavy talk therapy to address them. She’s a schizophrenic, borderline-personality, bipolar, depressed, narcissistic, bean-flicking, inappropriately-coquettish, wannabe siren. Oops, almost forgot histrionic!

There’s no cure for that stiff cocktail of emotional, social, and intellectual infirmities–there’s only a lifetime of business for mental health professionals and a trail of ground-up balls, hearts, minds, and souls to result from this personality type’s having the right to exist within society’s heart as opposed to provisional relegation to its fringes.

If you see this type emerging, don’t deny humanity the protection of smooshing it into the ground, razing it to the foundation, shattering it completely until all that’s left is a bleeding heart, something real (no physical violence, no abuse). Something real is better than something faked–feigned interest in others for the purpose of attracting interest from them in turn, for the purpose of having more personal acolytes and an as-big-as-possible rolodex of superficial social options that act as alternatives to self-reflection, self-discovery and real connection is something that must be eradicated from humanity, so don’t hesitate to take this work upon yourself. No double standards; no one-sided investment; no need for entertainment in relationships. Don’t let these things define your relationships, and you’ll be doing all you can to protect humanity from this evil. Don’t let her act like a babygurl forever. If she does, give her repeated tastes of her own rank-smelling shit. Cheat, lie, leave, and come back to see if it’s working until you’re done. That’s what she’s doing, minus the leaving part. She always keeps a foot in the door, because it’s cold in that empty head of hers!

* She had her bitchcucking, cocksucking, plagiarizing, taking-advantage-of-women, deserving of bona fide physical domination by a superior male, handlebar-mustached fuckold cuntwipe just two hours away when I was a cerebral young cucky trying to grasp at the threshold of manhood–trying to hold onto the half-finger-long ledge leading up to it while she was trying to set herself up for life by wooing, getting boinked fecklessly by, and marrying some piece-of-shit future physicist with the proportions of a cerebral, aging cucky and, this is no exaggeration, Yosemite Sam as his nearest doppelganger. My fingers became strong, my arms became strong, and even my legs got some action and I pulled myself up that ledge sans help and flung myself through that motherfucking door, past all the “men” who haven’t faced, let along managed, this kind of adversity–the kind particularly generated by a truly sociopathic and fucked up headcase of a young woman.