write me, my dog (writememydog) wrote,
write me, my dog
writememydog

NINJA MANIFESTO:
"the place just above point b"


What happened?

The night feels so young, but ages quick as death. There's a song, not an oldie but close to it, it was playing on the radio at the comic shop I work at earlier today. It is in my head again . . . sort of. The fading echo of a note's peak, going from point a to just above point b, imprinting its impact onto the frontal lobe, ready to hit the cerebral cortex or what the fuck ever whenever the night says, "Go."

Its peaking in my chest right now, the point just above b. That's the only part of the song I fully remember. Not even the lyrics. I'm sort of building a new song around it, with my own sporadic and improvised lyrics that certainly must hold some meaning to me, or I otherwise would not utter them. But God knows I'll never remember them. Nor do I wish to. They fit the moment, and when the moment is gone, so will the song I've built around point a to just above point b, and the lyrics with it.

It seems pointless, but I'm sure there's something more to it.

I don't want to sleep, not while the point just above b hums through my head. This isn't the kind of song you sleep to. Its the kind of song you don't wake up to, and I want to be able to want to be able to get up tomorow. And no, that was not a typo.

Some stirring of punk rock restlessness skitters around in my shoulders, sliding from the collarbones back and forth, hitting the curved walls of my shoulder blades, and, with the help of physics, causing my arm to twitch and jerk with the impact. It isn't too hard to tap into. Thank you President Bush, for that.

I'm eighteen and of legal age to vote, and as with everyone else with a pair of eyes and a pair of testicles, literal or metaphorical, I am going to vote for whatever fuck is going to get the Thief out of that office. But I can't help but think about it. It certianly is a quandry. Bush has gotten us in some shit, and it will take a serious mother fucker to pull us out of it. What if the fucker who wins the primaries is sme kind of titty-fuck retard who can't get us out. Perfectly likely. Most of them are running just to be sure that Bush will be out of the fuckin' office, too.

At any rate, Bush will be gone, but how do we know we aren't welcoming in a new dumb-fuck to take over dumb-fucking around where the last dumb-fuck fucked up? The republicans thought they'd pick the lesser of two evils by voting for Gore over Bush, and now look. They got shit and lies on their face while they wave a flag around that means nothing because IT has shit and lies smeared all across each and every stripe and star, too!

But enough about me. Really.

And you know, my shoulders my supply the force to type tyhe words, but they're just over-compinsating for the point just above b, which floods incomprehensibly every other thought I might have.

Fuck, man. What am I doing? What have I done? What haven't I done.

What haven't you done?

I seriously want to just close my eyes. Which is something I've always objected to when you're getting fucked in the ass. You can close your eyes when someone's fucking you into the ass, but they'll still be fucking you in the ass. And all the pretty colors and fake sensations you instill upon yourself won't change the fact that you'll open your eyes to a gaping asshole with a stranger's cum dripping out of the rim.

Oh I'm sorry, was that too much for you? My bad. I only wanted to illustrate the fact that when you're bent over and someone's fucking you in the ass, you should reach back, grab the prick, pull it out, cut it off, and shove it down their fucking throats while skull fucking them. Which is where you gouge out their eye and fuck them through the skull, penetrating their brain with your throbbing, veiny member.

That's all I wanted to illustrate.

My point being (yes, gentile reader, there is a point) I don't know where I am, any more. The point just above point b is a serious point to be at, especially when you're eighteen and confused about everything there is to be confused about except for your sexuality. No no, there's no question here about what my sexuality is: frustrated.

Let me sum it up for you, oh for-some-reason-still reader. Because here's why point b is just below where I'm at, why my arms reek of rage, why my body aches and snags, why my eyes linger just above open, and why I have reverted to the whiny, depressive pussy I once, not so long ago, was so over-qualified as:

Life- A fucking joke. No jobs, no homes for anyone. Clock in, circulate, clock out, go home, watch TV, debate on Micheal Jackson's face, Janet Jackson's nipple, Kobe Bryant's rape-ee, and why those democrats have it in for poor ol' Honest Bush. Sleep and dream about a fucking life that never was, never will be, and never wants to be, dream of fucking nothing served on a plate of bills and eviction notices. Dream of a lost loved one, dream of that which was and can never be again, dream of everything you love, and wake up hating yourself for it. As for myself, personally, live in a void, a constant state of dreaming for that won'ts and shant's and never will be's, never doing anything active, dreaming as I file away the comics I dreamed over in third fucking grade when I'd bash myself in the head cause I thought it was funny and felt good. Live within this incessant state of no possibilities, encouraged to go to a college and become a proactive member of a functioning economy, encouraged to keep a steady paycheck, maybe screw college, get a roomate and continue to barely meet ends, working all the damn time so that I can buy shit I don't need and go home to watch Jon Stewart make me feel like maybe I'm actually engaged in politics when in fact I'm sitting on my couch, clocking in, clocking out, sitting on my ass, and debating over a FUCKING NIPPLE.

Liberty - And if you thought Life was an interesting forray into pessimism, Liberty's got it beat. Sure, Lady Liberty can see, shit, she and Justice party. But they BOTH left fucking town without so much as a nore, a phone call, my Tired, my Poor, my Huddled fucking Masses, or fuck, not even a goddamn scale. An enhanced police state that encourgaes the kind of apathetic contribution to the status quo that swallowed souls, destroyed happy lives, and forced a group of people to get on a boat, find another island to live on, and call it the United States to begin with. Liberty's worse than Life, because Liberty isn't there to defend Life. She's not there to hold up the Torch, to light the way for those of us who want more, who see more on the horizon, and who want to pursue it. Who want to stand up, and show us our own ways so that we may become a better society, community, and a more enlightened bunch of people. Only thing left of Lady Liberty is a copper statue, given to us by a country we've turned our back on for oil, standing against a gash in our hope, the deepest wound to the very fabric that clothed Liberty in the first placed, the deep well of blood that swallowed the lives of our people, a travesty allowed to happen by the very person who condemns us to solemnity and shit and lies on our fucking valor, our hope, our truth. Liberty's fucking gone. All we're left with is a Constitution that no one who has sworn to uphold has or ever will actually uphold. Freedom is a right, not a privelage.

The Pursuit- the biggest gag of all. All of this, this is hardly even so much a political thing. This is all people's lives. People's freedoms. Inherant human rights denied to us, as we are regulated. Told to "watch our backs." What's worse, not even by the inherintly evil Man, but by each other. Jingoism and religion fucking on an flag-draped altar, smothering us between their sweaty bellies. No Lives, no Liberites. So we have each of us removed that which allows us to pursue that Happiness. Instead we are provided with choices set within specific guidelines. Its okay if we have Happiness, so long us it falls within this criteria. Dr. Garcia of the Metro Davidson School System, oh he's for sure part of it. His intentions are to train people for the business market, and eradicate anything that stands in the way. Create good contributing typists. No artists. No sports. Not shit but you and a computer, typing. And I know he's not the only one. We're being trained to sit on an assembly line. Because that's what good Americans do. They can pursue happiness all they want, so long as they go to college and get a job typing. Otherwise they can work serving all those people who went to college and type for a living. It really doesn't matter. So long as you're serving somebody.

There's a local graffit artist. Their stuff is ultra-simple. No tags, no shit. Just a message. A "fight the power"style fist with the word "LIVE" as in the verb "to live," not "live from new york" written on the fingers, and underneath a message. My favorite of theirs is one done here in the Madison area, right next to the building where Patrick works. It said "YOU ARE NOT A SLAVE." I used to drive by it all the time, just to remind myself of it.

Its long since been painted over by the local shops, maybe Patrick's shop. Who knows. But its gone. It was replaced only briefly by "NEVER SURRENDER" but has since long been gone. And now it remains gone. It makes me wonder what happend to the LIVE Fists. I wonder if they're planning something bigger, biding their time, waiting for just the right moment to spring out and bomb the place. Or maybe they're just caught up in the whirlwind of life, too busy to replace the blank wall with new words. Or I wonder if they've been caught. Arrested, maybe, incorporated into the machine. Or maybe they just stopped believing their own words.

Perhaps I'm a bit pessimistic, tonight. Perhaps it being at the point right above b, just after point a, not quite point c. I think maybe so. I think maybe I'm just too tired. I think I'm just too worn out in general; I honestly don't even have the will to masturbate, anymore. I think maybe I'll have to close my eyes.

But maybe I'm not thinking at all.

I really don't know what the point of this little ramble was, if not to indulge in my own cynicism. Honestly, I'd say its me ignoring the issue that genuinely bothers my heart. Lord knows I've never been one to take it in the ass, nor will I ever take it in the ass, nor will I ever concede to the possibility of a serving job for all my life, or a typing job for all my life, or being anyone's slave, ESPECIALLY not my own.

But the night feels so young and ages so quick. Here and gone. Its hard not to watch the clock sometimes.

Wonder what happened?
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
  • 2 comments