We Must Never, Ever Get Boring

PREFACE.             There are only a few people who can make a relationship really work.  Those kinds of people are the ones who actually believe in love.  Everyone else, well, we get used or use other people.             And we like it.             We are the parasites of the world.  We’re the emotional vampires that hide behind the façade of love.  It’s easy to fool someone into loving you. Believe me.  I think that for the most part, we, as humans, all want the same outcome in life: to have and to hold.  Or choke until cold. I can honestly say that for the longest time in my life, I believed I was “happy.”  This means I let everyone around me feed me the lies of relationships to one another, family, significant others, and random encounters.  However, in this world, I learned that no one is going to live up to your standards.  Everyone will be unfaithful towards you.  More importantly, you will die alone. Of course, you don’t know that yet.  You can’t.  But even if you could, your denial would make you feel as though you’re being silly.  Like convincing yourself there’s nothing in the closet or under your bed, you can make your brain believe anything.  The only difference is when everyone disappoints you, and your mommy and daddy are long dead, no one will hold you during a nightmare. Buckle up. Hold your head between your knees. And go fuck yourself. ************** Forever’s a really long time.  At least, it’s supposed to be.  This girl I’m fucking right now, I told her we’d be together forever.   She doesn’t know that forever’s gonna end in about three hours.  And then, when she wakes up next to an outline in the covers, she’ll call.  But my number was changed before I got here.  When this type of thing gets to be a habit, you realize that you have to be prepared in situations like this. Believe me. After you use someone for the first time, you realize how big the hole in your life really is.  You sit and think about how silly you’ve been the entire time, believing every line people have given you.  I know I did, and until you realize that it’s all a lie constructed by a generation where you married for life because a cosmic deity willed it, you’re set to fail.  Oh, the imaginations people have. This is the only reason I do it: the come and comedown.  All this work and talking and convincing someone that you really care and it all boils down to this:  One leg-cramping orgasm.  I feel all of my sins and transgressions against mankind disappear for a minute or so.  And that was enough to drive me to use people.  No wonder prostitutes can live with themselves.  They must get genital repentance every hour. Amen. This has been my life for the past ten years.  There’s a dull pain when I remember where it all came from:  I was twenty-three years old.  Her name was Gwen Mathis, a slender blonde with a temper; her eyes, transparent blue, her thighs, an open bar.  I was still in that dreamland where everything has a happy ending and I was convinced that we were getting married.  There’s that concept of love again.  It makes us do crazy things, they say. Like get married to a whore worthy of Babylon. But, what can I say?  We’re only young once: after that, life starts meaning less each day.  So there I was: happily and foolishly in love, and going to be married in two months.             And then I came home and walked in on her blowing two guys and fucking another.  Needless to say, I was devastated, and wanted to die.  I’d wasted so much time and money on this one fucking slut and had nothing to show for it at the end.  A few months later, (after prolonged drinking and drug use.) I had an epiphany: Everyone is going to hurt you, so why waste pointless emotions and time?  Go about your life, do what makes you happy, and fuck whenever and whomever you want. (Under consent, of course.  I’m a developed sociopath, not a rapist.)             So back to this girl now: She’s a ginger, blue eyes, and about as easy as they come. She’s so eager to jump into bed with another person just because she thinks they’ll love her. And maybe she’ll get a good one every now and again, maybe a one-to-twenty ratio. But her type is so clingy, but at the same time, judgmental, so it’s hard to want to stay with someone like that.                      Which is why I’m nicking out on her tonight; we met at a club, had a good time, and then I took her to a hotel. Now normally, this would have caused no problem, but in the middle of the night, she called herself from my phone to save my number. So she had my phone number, unbeknownst to me, and a few days later, called and asked to go to dinner.             “Goddamnit,” was my only thought. I’d slipped up. Could I afford to be this careless all the time? Who knows, next time I might get someone pregnant, then I’d have to stand trial for murder. I needed to be more cautious.             I agreed to go to dinner, and knew where this was going ahead of time. [Thinking smart, for those of you who may be lost: I have a revised plan this time.] I changed my number about twenty minutes before, (I took a cab and stopped by my local wireless provider.) and arrived at La Pavonce to meet up. She had dinner already ordered, got us some drinks and had that crazy-bitch look in her eyes.             Now, I could see that she planned this out, and was hoping to continue to rope me in, so instead of getting retard-trying-to-eat-jell-o wasted, I ordered some beers, drank those, and every time I took a shot, I’d spit it into the beer bottle, so as to make it look like a chaser.             Dear God, she was belligerently drunk by nine, and after we (meaning I) paid for the meal, she offered to drive us back to her place.

There comes a time in which every man must face his fear, no matter how irrational, intense or depraved.  We call fears to this degree, a phobia.  If I tried telling you, you’d most likely laugh at some of the things people are afraid of. Like clowns, or the color yellow, or old people. Or answering doors.             You know, you never, ever expect to have to deal with someone who has an intense fear of something you view as irrational.  Until the one freak day that it actually happens.  And here’s just one example of how that can go:             I met Mr. Dennis Moore probably two years ago.  He was an overall nice guy.  I was a psychiatric caseworker and my job was to help people who have been through extreme mental trauma assimilate back into a normal life.  This is how I met Dennis Moore.             I was told that he was going to be a difficult case.  I had difficult cases before, but not like this.             Before I go any further, let me tell you a little about Mr. Moore:  As a child, he witnessed his parents death at the hands of the, what was then known as “The Axe Man.”  He was a serial killer who simply busted down the doors of unsuspecting homes and smashed the family’s heads in with a blunt axe.  Not a nice man, and somehow, Mr. Moore escaped.  Ever since then, well, he’s not been the most associative person.  Standing about six-even, a thin, sallow-skin, thirty-five year old child was looking back at me from the case file photo.  I had no idea what was in store.             It all started when I came to work, settled in my office at 9 A.M. It was a high-rise office in the high-end of Manhattan. Very spacious, professionally decorated with warm colors, sleek Ikea furniture, even a mock-fireplace.  I sat behind my mahogany desk, and stared at this file, and I called my assistant into the room.             “Miss Chandler, where did this file come from?”  She looked at me, and then came into the office.             Standing five-six, (not including heels,) she was an amazing specimen of a woman.  She had fiery-red hair, silky-straight, bright blue eyes, and fair skin.  Her size eight pant-suit didn’t fool anyone: Stevie Wonder could see her hourglass curves. 

PREFACE.             There are only a few people who can make a relationship really work.  Those kinds of people are the ones who actually believe in love.  Everyone else, well, we get used or use other people.             And we like it.             We are the parasites of the world.  We’re the emotional vampires that hide behind the façade of love.  It’s easy to fool someone into loving you. Believe me.  I think that for the most part, we, as humans, all want the same outcome in life: to have and to hold.  Or choke until cold. I can honestly say that for the longest time in my life, I believed I was “happy.”  This means I let everyone around me feed me the lies of relationships to one another, family, significant others, and random encounters.  However, in this world, I learned that no one is going to live up to your standards.  Everyone will be unfaithful towards you.  More importantly, you will die alone. Of course, you don’t know that yet.  You can’t.  But even if you could, your denial would make you feel as though you’re being silly.  Like convincing yourself there’s nothing in the closet or under your bed, you can make your brain believe anything.  The only difference is when everyone disappoints you, and your mommy and daddy are long dead, no one will hold you during a nightmare. Buckle up. Hold your head between your knees. And go fuck yourself. ************** Forever’s a really long time.  At least, it’s supposed to be.  This girl I’m fucking right now, I told her we’d be together forever.   She doesn’t know that forever’s gonna end in about three hours.  And then, when she wakes up next to an outline in the covers, she’ll call.  But my number was changed before I got here.  When this type of thing gets to be a habit, you realize that you have to be prepared in situations like this. Believe me. After you use someone for the first time, you realize how big the hole in your life really is.  You sit and think about how silly you’ve been the entire time, believing every line people have given you.  I know I did, and until you realize that it’s all a lie constructed by a generation where you married for life because a cosmic deity willed it, you’re set to fail.  Oh, the imaginations people have. This is the only reason I do it: the come and comedown.  All this work and talking and convincing someone that you really care and it all boils down to this:  One leg-cramping orgasm.  I feel all of my sins and transgressions against mankind disappear for a minute or so.  And that was enough to drive me to use people.  No wonder prostitutes can live with themselves.  They must get genital repentance every hour. Amen. This has been my life for the past ten years.  There’s a dull pain when I remember where it all came from:  I was twenty-three years old.  Her name was Gwen Mathis, a slender blonde with a temper; her eyes, transparent blue, her thighs, an open bar.  I was still in that dreamland where everything has a happy ending and I was convinced that we were getting married.  There’s that concept of love again.  It makes us do crazy things, they say. Like get married to a whore worthy of Babylon. But, what can I say?  We’re only young once: after that, life starts meaning less each day.  So there I was: happily and foolishly in love, and going to be married in two months.             And then I came home and walked in on her blowing two guys and fucking another.  Needless to say, I was devastated, and wanted to die.  I’d wasted so much time and money on this one fucking slut and had nothing to show for it at the end.  A few months later, (after prolonged drinking and drug use.) I had an epiphany: Everyone is going to hurt you, so why waste pointless emotions and time?  Go about your life, do what makes you happy, and fuck whenever and whomever you want. (Under consent, of course.  I’m a developed sociopath, not a rapist.)

Every now and again, I have these moments when I second guess myself and ruin everything I’ve tried to accomplish. I suppose these things happen. It seems that probably the most likely scenario of my life is that I become so paranoid because of my past that I drive away everything that I love and care for, creating a horrible crack in my heart. Sometimes, I feel that my father’s life is revisited on my own because of the haunting tales of love and lust he’s that told me. I blame him a lot. For a lot. It may be unfair, but for the moment, I consider it collateral for giving me this complex. Of how everyone is out to hurt you and the world will take everyone you love and destroy them in ways that you can’t possibly save them from. Well, there’s always that. But if you really love someone, you’ll risk being completely cut open.  And this, I’ve come to learn, is what life is about.  You’ll always have something hanging over your head, memories, haunting feelings that one day, you’ll die alone. You’ll always have ghosts.

So I’ve been offline for a good bit, but I think I’m going to start picking things up and adding on to some of my stories.  As I sit here next to Mrs. Candice Cavazos, I’m thinking of all of the things that had just occurred in the past few weeks and changed my life. For the better. It’s been an interesting turn of events, to say the very least.  Good things to come in December. Love Like WInter.

“Oh fuck.  How did I land myself here?” I thought this as a gun was pushed to my temple.  I had a headache from Hell and I couldn’t move.  “What happened?” was the only thing I could think of and for some reason, I felt like I deserved to be here.             “You smug fuck,” uttered a voice from the figure holding the gun. It was soft, yet full of hate; similar to my own, but had a taste of insanity riddled within it.  Like a shot of smooth rum with high alcohol content, it seemed all good until it hit your throat.   Click. The hammer pulled back.  Well, shit.  Though I was face-to-face with my mortality, I was calm.  I sensed my captor’s grip tighten around the handle of the gun.  He then came into the light and it seemed like my life was thrust into a Twilight Zone episode.  I was staring at a face that looked like my own.  I must be on some serious shit.  What the fuck?  If the stinging of superglue binding my skin to the chair wasn’t so obvious, I would think myself asleep in some sort of mescaline-induced dream.  I’d probably be hovering above the room looking in, seeing this from the ceiling: I was holding myself captive.             “Why Charles, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” said the pseudo-me in mock-sympathy.  Then it hit me.  Oh shit.              Gunshots seem to take forever when you’re on the receiving end of them.  As my chest cavity was being ripped into by soft, heated lead, I remembered what happened just a few days prior…  And I wished I hadn’t. All this started nearly a year ago.  I was in my usual spot at the local café.  It had been a while since I had able to write anything because I was the typical aspiring writer.  My spot.  It was the third seat from the start of the row by the window.  I chose this spot specifically because it allowed me to watch passers-by and all the patrons of the café all at once.  This was my novel: “typical people in yuppie America.”  Typicality. This seemed to be a reoccurring theme in my life.  No matter what I ever done or tried, my life went going nowhere.  At this rate, death seemed like a welcome vacation.             So I watched people? Who doesn’t?  That doesn’t make me creepy at all.  Everywhere you go someone is watching you, in all honesty.  You must think that you seriously are so perfect that no one would dare look in your direction in an attempt to taint your image.  You ignorant fuck.  You really are not as perfect as you think you are.             So here I sat in this dimly lit coffee house, it’s walls painted a vibrant red and the cute shoulder-high counter girl, who came on to me like a heart attack, was yapping away about some guy she thought was cute that she had met in her 12:30 Lit class.  Her voice reminded me of when you jumped on those piranha plants on the first Mario Party game. Sort of like if you punched a small dog in the stomach.  It was just all around irritating until you get her in bed.              This was the first time I noticed Mr. Winnie the Pooh.  I call him this because that is exactly what he looked like.  His pencil thin eyebrows always in a confused state, his fat stomach poking out from under his Express Ltd. Button up and his soft voice like the creepy guy from Family Guy.  He was my main character. So Mr. Winnie the Pooh strolled his happy ass into the café looking to buy a heart-attack brownie (as though he needed it, the sad fuck) and our eyes connected.  Now, normally, I can hold a straight face under any circumstances, but for some reason, the realization that he was, in fact, Winnie the Pooh’s look-alike struck a chord with me and I doubled over with laughter.  This was very odd for me, because as I said before, my demeanor is quite serious and I hardly ever laugh in this place.  I looked around and the counter girl, Sarah was her name for future references, was giving me a strange look.  Never mind her. She’s always clueless about everything except for who she’s going down on that night.             After a few minutes, I straightened out and started writing Pooh Bear’s story:  I imagined him going to work putting lids on glass mustard bottles. Every day, he woke up in the same mind-numbing routine- Getting up at five in the A.M., looking at his slob of a wife and it depressing him, rolling out of bed then climbing into a cold shower.  Not that he liked cold showers, but the water heater in his small two bedroom apartment never worked properly so it took almost an hour of running the water until it would warm up.  He could not afford the water bill, so he just made do with it.             This was only the start of Pooh-Bear’s story. I imagined him attempting to break his routine by going out to hire tricks to pretend to be his wife: He’d do this for all of his social occasions or a coworker’s party.  The wife just stayed at the house eating tv dinners and watching Desperate Housewives, doing her own bit of escaping reality.             I watched him devour his brownie and, for a moment, his frumpy demeanor disappeared and he was actually happy. Poor guy.  There have been so many people I’d written about, I can’t help but wonder how many I’ve been right about.             Right as I’m having my moment of sympathy towards this epic of a life wasted, Julie (the aforementioned barista with huge cans) knocked over all of the flavored syrup bottles.  I laughed on the inside: what a stupid bitch.  I looked the off-lit little coffee house and decided that was enough to make me head home.  No sense in waiting for something to actually inspire a huge breakthrough in a place where the most eventful happening is hearing Julie throw up her lunch because her weight is somehow calculated in her self-worth (someone should introduce her to Pooh-Bear).  I walked out of the café and no sooner had I turned to head in the direction of my apartment was I knocked to my ass by some big fucking black guy running from the police. (Imagine that.)  At any rate, my stepping out in front of this giant coal train managed to derail it and resulted in the fat police officers capturing him. [Please note that this is where the important shit in the story starts. It’s best to refrain from tensing up in a head-on collision.] I was picked up by—let’s call him Dan—and was receiving handshakes from everyone around me.  I looked down at what looked like a Transformer that was set on fire, put out with an axe, and had herpes (my laptop, for those of you whose imagery sucks) and heard “Don’t worry about that, son. We’ll take care of it for ya.”  He started talking to me, about my life, about his life, then showed me to the cameras as an evidence guy grabbed my computer and asked for my license. I hate you. This was the black hole of bad luck that was my life.  I started thinking that there was someone who had written about me in the same way I write about other people.  Not that it mattered.             So it turned out that the UPS truck that ran me over (The black guy. Get it? He was big and black like a UPS truck—never mind. Stay with me, guys.) is some kind of guy who kidnapped foreign girls, got them addicted to crystal meth, then released them into prostitution.  Thanks for that, but why the fuck do I care?  Seriously? I just wanted a new computer and that was it.  But that was too easy.             So after the long walk home (there were so many backslaps and “congratulations,”  I felt like the most positive Jesus alternative) and ruthless climb up the four flights of stairs (that were off by 5 centimeters.  The average person will trip if the height is off by a lot less than that.) I opened the door to my studio green apartment; All of its furnishings exactly where they needed to be. Except my coffee pot.  I never drank coffee from my own coffee pot because I figured that I’d let someone who was trained to make “great coffee experiences” make it for me.             It was, for some reason, next to my microwave, and not on top of it, where I kept it. (Because I never bothered to put it in the cabinet.  Laziness at its finest.)  I looked about my apartment for any sign of theft. Then I saw it:  The tiniest, most unnoticeable gap in the window sill of the fire escape.  Only someone as annoyingly analytical as myself would have noticed it, or even the coffee pot for that matter.  So from there, I began to glance about the studio apartment. My studio apartment, that someone has defiled and tracked their horrid venereal presence.             I feel like a rape victim, someone call Antoine Dodson. Obviously we have a rapist in my fucking apartment. I looked and looked in the 1,700 square foot flat for any trace of who would have been in my apartment. (Hide ya kids, hide ya wives.)  I found what I was looking for in my bedroom.  It was a greeting card.  I was confused at why someone would risk a “breaking and entering” charge to put a greeting card on top of my alarm clock.  I looked about the small bedroom:  It had white walls plastered in movie, book, music, concert posters all made into one big collage that fit them like a flashcut wallpaper.  I had a chestnut dresser about shoulder high with everything I needed as far as clothing.  It was sorted from top to bottom, in the order that I put the articles on: undergarments, shirts, pants, and then shoes.  Yes, shoes in a drawer.  I guess I figured that there’s more order than randomly scattered about in the bottom of my closet. I picked up the card. It was typical Hallmark sentiment: a cute orange kitten in a small metal pail.  I opened it and almost laughed.  The contents clearly were intended to play against how the card looked, so if I showed it to anyone, they’d think I was just jerking their chain.  Clever.  It was scrawled with utmost hatred.  I could see how intensely the author had bore down into the card and let the ink bleed into it:  “You stupid fuck.  You have no idea what you’ve done.  I swear to God, if I see your face on TV, I will fuck your shit up. Stay low key for the next few days and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”             So there I stood again, looking around my room, feeling invaded and threatened by this small orange kitten.  I read it again, looking for a signature or something that would give me a clue to who it was.  Obviously someone who doesn’t like seeing me on the news.  I didn’t think I was that ugly. I recounted all the events of the day: Wake up. (Keep breathing.) Shower. Brush teeth. Get dressed.  Drink my coffee on the balcony.  Have a smoke.  Work at my desk*.  *Indicates me looking at funny pictures on the computer.  Who still works at the office? Get off at three, go and sit at the coffee shop and re-tell my visions of other people’s lives.  Get run over by a coal train.  Interviews, talks, handshakes, slump off to the apartment.  Find the ca—- Damn. Crash test one: initiate. UPS guy. The cop had said he did something in prostitution.  And he was running from the police.  Had I not stepped out and made him trip over me, he would have gotten away, (because our police officers are in such great condition*)  *Indicates complete bullshit. and there must be something important he was hiding, otherwise he wouldn’t have run, cause they can’t really hold him for just walking around.      So, whoever broke into my apartment had to have a good way of getting information pretty quickly.  The only people present that knew exactly what was going on were the officers and UPS guy.  Someone, whether it was UPS using his one call to tell someone what had happened, or a dirty cop, knew me.  A lot better than I did, because I had no idea what the problem was.  He didn’t have his life’s efforts on a computer that would have to be salvaged.             Do you think that all of the masters of art would risk injury or death to get to where they ended up?  Probably not.  They did not have the same intuition as I do.  If your creation outlives you, you can look back from the grave and laugh: this is your own taste of mortality.  If you fail, you’re just like all the other nameless statistics that tried, failed, and were forgotten.             I paced about thinking of how I got into this, sat and figured all the variables, got in the shower, and nothing.  I was about to give up hope, when I realized the key factor.  It always seems to be the most miniscule details that escape and cause issues.             That chatty police officer and Evidence Guy. Fucking A. This was shit.  I had to have been in a movie or book, because this was just too much.  So the police department is anonymously sending me threats to stay out of the news.  Wow, that makes sense.* *Indicates sarcasm. I did just as I was instructed.  I stayed away from the coffee shop, any major crossing, wait. Rewind that.  I found a new coffee shop to sit and write at.  I had to settle with a notebook, so it looked a little more suspicious, but I’d do anything to not anger this orange kitten entity.  It went okay for a while.

tumblrbot asked: WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET? somewhere where large corporations and governments haven’t tainted individuality.