What if there was a world where every phrase was taken literally? Like “Do you take me for a fool?” literally means you kidnap someone and bring them to a seedy underworld jester that’s, like, part of the Triad or something. And then “easy as pie” would mean that pie was widely known to have loose morals. (Oh, pie. You saucy harlot.) Or have you ever said “close but no cigar” to a kid? What if the kid was right? You’d cough up that damn cigar. People’s brains would rattle around on account of the marbles inside of them, which would frequently be lost by people with large earholes. Old habits would roam around the wild, full of bullet wounds and tough as gristle. There would be a law in place, as well, the final article of the Geneva conventions: “all good things must come to an end.” If a country doesn’t abide, well, then probably the entire world would end on account of them all nuking each other back to the Stone Age (and, of course, the explosions would literally rip the fabric of time and bring us back to the time of Neanderthals).
Man, this stuff is good. I should probably write some of this down… oh wait.
Coffee barristas? Ha! Coffee barristas are lamesauce, yo! Don’t take NO skill to put water in a can and press a button. I got my mangoes right here. I got my bananas (you know I got my bananas). I got my fresh-as-a-daisy squeezed O.J.! Ha haa! YEAH! Put in a little bit of my yogurt, a little bit o’ honey fo’ my honeys (namsayin’ playaaaa?), and that shit is POPPIN’! What? What up now? Coffee Barristas got nothin’ on me! Come into my house? Nuh uh! Nuh, uh! That’s not it goes down in my house! First we throw in the fruit, then we hit frappe on this mother! Ice cold. You like my smoothies, baby? Sure you do. Open wide, ’cause here comes the S train: Choooooooo~!
Chewing my fingernails. Pulling hairs from the roots. My stomach rumbles from too much coffee. Shut up, stomach. Nobody asked you. My fingernail is clicking rapidly on the desk, thumping like Morse code. It must have been going at it for a minute before I stopped it. My mouth is dry. I roll my tongue around to collect moisture. Saliva feels like paint. I’d get water but I don’t feel like moving.
In lieu of needing to finish my work, I travel the internet, looking for my next fix. Another hair gets tweezed by overgrown fingernails. I’m a mess, but the part of me that recognizes this isn’t even conscious now. I’m sucked into the internet world, full of videos and articles and blogging.
Maybe if I shut my eyes, just for a little while, I just might wake. Back. Up.
We’re done here. I’m done. Pack it in, boys. Pack it in. Let down your hair. Stay a while and listen, because we’re DUN. That’s how done we are. I can’t even describe the doneness of our situation here. If we were any more done, we’d be doner kabobs. They’d be calling us dunces and using Dunn-Edwards for our paint finish. D-W-N (that’s two U’s for emphasis), Duune. Like when you read the acclaimed sci-fi series, close the back cover of the book and say, “Man, that was a long read” or when you scrape the last of the steak sauce off the plate and say “Damn, that was a good meal.” That’s the quantity of well-doneness we’re talking about. No blood left in the steak. All cooked out ’til it’s pink no more. And it’s in your stomach. Fin. Finito. Endingariano. The end. That’s it. That’s all she wrote. There is no more. Aaaand scene.
Stars are bright and fluffy! What? You don’t believe me? I’ve been to the stars, buddy, and I know what they’re like. Have you? Didn’t think so, Mr. expert. Well, let me tell you, stars feel like a kitty’s tummy. Stars dance around you with the agility of Fred Astaire on one of his coke highs! What, you say? You don’t think Fred Astaire did coke? What makes you the expert? I know Fred Astaire!
What does a mind look like? Is it a beautiful rainbow spectrum or a heap of gray matter? Does a mind flow uniformly like blood through a vessel? Or is its shape like a drop of water diffusing into a wide ocean? Can it burn? Can it crush, and heal, and love? Can it touch the living world? Or is that what our tiny bodies are for? What would it say if a mind had no mouth to use in its place? How would it say it without fingers to hold the paint brush or lips to find a lover? Would a mind be anything at all, if the body was not there to demonstrate its will? Does the mind grow the body or does the body develop the mind? What if the mind could grow its own body? What would it look like? What would we look like, if our bodies were images of our minds’ eye? Wouldn’t that be exciting? Scary? Intense? What if you lived in a house made entirely of thoughts? Would you even know you were in a house at all? Wouldn’t that be exciting? Or would it feel like a cage? Well, what do you think?
What will I write about, then? Surely not about horses, as that would take too long. Writing about voices has been done, and I don’t plan on doing it again unless it’s truly inspired. Writing about relationships is pretty old hat, if you ask me. And murder? Well, it’s just like horses. And relationships, too. Murder’s too complicated. It’s like love, but quicker and meaner. Love is the slow, quiet death. Perhaps, then, I’ll write about torture. Torture is death but without being mean. It’s the tempting servitude to the dark abyss. There are so many people who love to be tortured, and I think I may be one.
So here’s to them.
Here’s to Mike Starr and your friend Brent. Here’s to the lesbians that get engaged to men before they accept themselves. Here’s to the men who can’t get laid and even more to the women who can’t get laid. Here’s to the people with cerebral palsy who have to deal with all the fuckers who think “look at that retard in the wheelchair” when they’re fully aware of what’s going on. Here’ s to the children. Here’s to old folk. Here’s to the baby boomers and generation X, Y and Z. Here’s to the dissolving sanity of Charlie Sheen. You’re a good man, Charlie Sheen. Here’s also to rabbits in cages and spiders getting flushed down the drain. And you know what? Here’s to you. All of you. You know who you are. Raise your glasses high.