Dead as in "what's the use?"

That's how it ends.
No signs, no ringing bells, no reward.
Sheer disappointment. Loads of pain.
Anticlimax.

That's what's left: frustration, discomfort, perfidy, shame, degradation, sadness, loneliness, mistake, abandon, disregard, emptiness.

And in her eyes, you see nothing…

Gimme a reason

So you killed your first person, human being, son of god. So you feel awkward, to say the least. The feeling, to be honest, is sort of… You feel relieved.
One shithead less upon the planet. Maybe two people are gonna miss this son of a whore for more than a week. In fact, that low-life scum shoulda been put out of his misery a year or so ago.
So you did it, and you're not at all proud of it.
And it downs on you that all the implications are going to get you sooner or later. Prision. Remorse. The disgust in everyone's look. The angst. Fear. Guilt. Oh, they come in band.
Then again, it's all-too-good that no one has to smell that bastard around. That tiny little self-immersed heart. That humongous mediocrity. That puke-inducing self commiseration. That sheer beigeness.
Probably for the best. But, in the end, you feel you can do it again. Kill someone. Killing seems already a cure. Some sort of ointment for the world blisters. Purulent like the one you just excised.
And the consequences? Well, you killed your first ghost of a chance to be happy. Now you face yourself in the mirror, if you can.

Riddles are abound

This is not a town anymore, this is a ingeniously devised torture implement where every fucking image, sound and smell reminds you: she's gone.
Dead in a second. Worlds collide. And you're burning.
Your mother told you would burn. You didn't believe. You did believe, though, that you'd die first. Nope.
You still hasn't got a clue.
She's gone, she's history, she's the only thing ever to make you afraid of diyng. And look at you now. And from where you're standing, hell seems so sweet.
Blab all day long, mingle, drink, drug yourself to oblivion, get laid, create, gig. It doesn't matter.
Fight for her, long for her, blame her, ignore her, forget her. It doesn't matter.
Better get yourself a new life altogether, a parallel world where she's never be. It doesn't matter.
In the end, nothing really matters anymore.

Sizing me up for the kill

Insomniac. Third time this week you won't sleep a wink. Previous lifes demanding the time you've lost trying to cope with the fact you haven't lived and, surprise, surprise, you still haven't.
D'you lack the guts? D'you lack the fangs? Are you without any sense of self-respect?
Nah.
It's just you don't find it worth, you do not compromise within. Within is where lie you nude. The proposition is: take your time, and you scatter around.
Find a blister, scratch, that's all you got after all. And never, ever, you'll be on track again. Never smoothly.
Discreet.
At least, you've found the word.

Grandiloquence

-Epilogue-

Sum up all the fuckups you were responsible for and you'll have a pretty good idea why the heck you've been put in this world. If not, we are defined by our errors, the kind of mistakes we are able to commit, the sort of evil we can cause.
Everything else is a bonus.
So, mingle with me in the next life of mine, you're all invited. Reinventing oneself is making all-new mistakes.
So, what d'ya have for me to mess up with?

Freak! The swing

-Part XVI-

So you came. So you waited. So you have wandered where could we be going. And now you realize that the road leads nowhere, the music stopped when you least expected and now you can only stare at the end of all worlds.

My carrying you all the way was not without method or without meaning. But I'm not the one who'll clarify. I ain't telling you what the fuck was meant to be learned or acquired or what should've dawned on ya by this time of the day.

Run. Stay. Pray if you must. There's no more to see, there's never been.

Blame me. You'd before. It's not gonna change zilch.

It's no use cleaning up this mess. I told you in the beggining. And, if you're expecting any word of wisdom, any closure, go read one of those top-selling books of yours. And leave me alone.

See ya.

Follow me

-Part XV-

Pour down all your prejudices. It's really annoying the way you grab them like they're life supporters. And it's a wonder how you came this far carrying those.

I'm entangled here. Deep down in all the things I ever wanted to see. I just gazed at the mesh, I took but a peek into the Indra's net and bam! I can't think of things separately.

I'll try to explain.

No thought anymore comes alone. There's no way I can concentrate in a thing since there's no more such thing as a single, unique, thing. I can see the connections, see? D'ya see what I'm doin' here? Hear me?

You are not what you think you are anymore than I'm not whatever image I had of myself. You can only be defined by what you're not. And that changes a lot. Then you figure out that it can be you that's changing, not the object you're referring to. Either that or you're changing the friggin' subject whilst you're observing it.

Look at me. Look at yourself. See the difference? Neither I do.

Now be a nice boy and pass the salt.

Alternative grooming

-Part XIV-

Julie has this thing about writing in English, which was very odd since she's brazilian and never really have any formal English language learning. It didn't stop her, though. She was allways correcting me and making fun of my English. In fact, she harassed me everyday for every conceivable reason. She had this I'myourintellectualsuperior thing, you know?

Julie wasn't that good between the sheets, but I always had this lust for big, round, butts, dig? Anyway, I tried hard, but Julie never had me as worthy. Intelectually, of course. And she made a point of it. With one or two "english" expressions. Commonplace.

Julie, the bullie. Cliché Julie, I called her. Not to her face, of course.

It took her five years to dump me. And she's left a note.

"And then there was no more sunshine, for the 'bitch who were pestering you' is long gone and she took your will with her. No, really, it's not like you've got something to celebrate.
"Anyway, you keep things going until there's no more turning back or tunring away. Then you blame yourself (indeed reasonably) and do nothing to change or to better the situation. It's almost like if you take pleasure in being miserable. Oh, yeah, for you seem to make everything worse than it is, everytime. And you complain. A lot. Oh, how I'm miserable, oh, how my heart hurts, oh how the world treats me, oh, what have I done to deserve this, oh, nobody loves me. Fuck, you don't love yourself. You panic at the sight of happiness.
"Oh, but there's more. All you do is daydream about changes, magical changes in your life that you know will never happen. Basically, you have the emotional maturity of a 12-year old boy.
"In fact, you're a control freak and a low-life manipulator. And you're an emotional blackmailer, You've got to have people around just to hear how you're good, how you're intelligent, how hot you are. It all boils down to your humongous ego. Maybe you even let people down to get attention. You're a fucking emotional black hole.
"Maybe you really shoulda kill yourself."

Julie, I love you, bitch.

Glad to hear from ya

-Part XIII-

A C-sharp. A B-flat. A natural killer G and we called it a day. Went straight to the bridge.

(oh, yeah!)

There's nothing much left to say, except that we cannot find no way out anymore. We're chained, bounded, we're involved so far and so deep that it'd be compared to an organ removal. And yet, sometimes you have to cut a leg before it kills you.

(I'm Jack's colon. I get cancer. I kill Jack.)

But you heard it elsewhere, and it's not like your friends never tried to warn you. I'm fucking evil. I'm a fucking evil genius, whose sole purpose is to take people out of their worlds and put them under my influence. I distort peoples' minds, I make them change.

In no-time, people feel trapped, entangled in my whims and evil deeds. I lock 'em up. They lose their will and become zombies, begging for scraps of my attention. No, love's got nothing to do with it. I know no love, they say. I'm a fucking emotional blackhole. And I'll kill you in the process.

So, what are you doing with me? Haven't you been warned? Your friends haven't alerted you to run while you could? Can't you see they don't like me, that they never did?

I've nothing to offer but the night.

Passée composée

-Intermission-

All the commands are set flat.

Bob sent me

-Part XII-

With all due respect, I think I got you.

You're, like, 10 years younger than you look. You're 20 years younger than I thought while talking with you. You have some kind of disease (some say it's called ninetofive) that impares your peripherical vision and have corroded your brain to a potato mush.

The second stage is: you stop making sense. Prejudice is one of the first things I could notice. Laziness. Apathy. Self-righteousness. Let me ask if you zombies eat brains to make up for those you don't use?

Third thing you'll live out of scraps. Scraps of attention, scraps of food, scraps of money. And you seem to thrive on scraps of power. You know, the moment you knew you could be mean to the intern and get along with it, you seemed to have grown in size.

Now you can barely see through your very, very distorted prejudice, you sound like your boss and colleagues and actually think you make a difference. And right now I don't know if I let you suffer another year or I fire you so you can "think out of the box".

Go fish.

Goin' home

-Part XI-

Been wondering what the heck are we supposed to do here. I'm not you. I'm not myself. I'm not your saviour, not your boss. I'm not your daddy —though someone has to be. I'm clueless as the rest of the race, and one of them few to admit to it.

So, I was saying, I'm not here to make you comfortable. I'm not here to explain myself. I'm not here to give you hope or to guide you, and certainly not to tell you what to do next.I'm not here to abuse you. I thought we could just get along. A little chit-chat here, a pint there.

Got to see my I.D.? What do you mean? Need to know my smell or something? Wanna tag me? Oh, I see. It'a a friggin' anthropologic experiment for ya. I'm your, like, subject. A guinea pig. A mutant groundhog who's about to tell you if your misery is about to end or you'll have two more decades of it. Well, I'll think about it and decide if I tell you wether I see my shadow.

Second thoughts abou the race, you know. Maybe we're worthy the puniest time we'll float around here. In the corner.

Never underestimate the pain

-Part X-

A strong feeling of emptyness. A look around and you notice the hints of the end, or the beggining of the end. Signs. Will you ever learn to read those?

You look around, you look the other way. You sip your tea and look one more time. No, not this time. This time it stays unanswered. This time is final. Until the next time.

Stretch. Yawn. Scratch. Sigh.

Collecting reasons why you shoulda take a walk, see the world, interact. Imagining what would be like to get to start talking to people again. Real talk. Real people. Nah. Bots are far more interesting these days. And you could never stand the smell, anyway.

Flesh. You see it more as a handicap than otherwise. Time to jack in and go digit again. On the count of three.

Tune in, drop out

-Part IX-

Zoom in. Chill out. No. Not a move. Let me try with my sunglasses on.

Opt in. Roll out. Nope. That's not right. I'll have to shake a little like this. And, oh, there used to be a lever of some kind… Here. There you go. Have another shot.

Languages can be so useful and tricky as the devil. It needs only the smallest bend and there you go: you're someone else. You can walk among your equals, among your superiors and subordinates. You can mingle with the gods. It's all in your head.

Go ahead, try it for, like, a week or two. And then show me what you've got. I'ts frightening the way you can make people believe you're another person entirely. I can never recall who said what when, but these things are precious and should be one of those public domain shit:

The only thing you have to be good at is lying. Once you've mastered that, you're good at everything else.

English as a second language

-Part VIII-

Make no mistake: I'm sure not here to entertain you.

Some will say I'm not here at all. Some'll say stuff about web persona, narrowcasting, exponential communities. Some'll argue about sanity and relationships in the new millenium. I'll say they ain't got a clue.

Lost in a handful of dogmas.

Being such a clown doesn't make me any more wiser. I keep watching (I'm fucking paying attention, ya know?) and I see no sense, no pattern, no ghost of a chance. Or, maybe, all I see is chance. By chance. Perchance to get confused, this watching thing.

Learnt it from a magician friend. You're about to see what I want you to see. I got your attention just where I wanted it. And you can't see what I'm doing, unless I let you. I own you. That's the beauty of this.

You've been fooled. And entertained in the process.

We're hiring

-Part VII-

She's giving me that stare again. Oh, dear, here we go…

— Why did you send her?
— Did you…?
— Yeah, but that's not the issue…
— Was she…?
— Of course, but what I mean is…
— Have you girls…?
— That's beside the point, you…
— Now, now, darling, let me get this straight so my blond little head can make something out of it. You naughty girls had a good time and you're about to lecture me in some sort of "I have to have the last word for I'm a big queen kameha bitch"?
— Just don't do this anymore.
— Hm. I think I just might have gotten it. Are you in l.o.v.e., bitch?
— And you're to blame.

Oh, dear. I just ruined two more lives. Ain't I a marvelous bastard?

Sorrow

-Part VI-

It's the Fool. The symbolism it carries strikes you as you go along with you petty life. It's the sharks that bother you now. Those infinite teeth, razor-sharp.

It's the light that won't go. There's no more darkness. It's lights everywhere. Even when they want the lights to go out is so they can record darkness: night-vision shots of whatever they're killing with those GigaWatts of theirs.

It's the snow. And every morning you go to work and have to deal with that white shit that only look good in movies. Snow and beaches with all that sand. Snow and sand. The plagues that pisses you off and make it impossible to live here.

It's you. You and your ever-wandering feeble mind. You that cannot and want not to be sedated. It's all your fault, in the end—only yourself to blame. It's your resilence in staying awake and alive.

It's gotta be the time.

Let my people go

-Part V-

Phone rings. I pick it up, hear for a while, grab my coat and leave.

It takes me 10 minutes to get where the guy asked me to go. I stand for a while there, with a strange urge to smoke. I don't smoke, but it somehow seem like the right thing to do: to lit a fag, inhale and act like I'm in a fucking movie.

People pass by trying to look busy, or cool, or smart. Temperature has dropped, like, 10 degrees from yesterday and everybody is gettin' their expensive coats out to a hike. Everybody's trying to look parisien.

Ok. Now he's officially late. I'll have a coffee.

Strangely, I feel I could blend in. Be with them. Go shopping. Go do whatever those humans do. But I've got a plane to catch. And my agent is late.

Girly-girl walks a dog. The dog isn't happy. The girl isn't happy. I resist the urge to put them out of their misery. Instead, I give her a grim —halfway to a smirk. She smiles. I point to the chair, leaning my head. She keeps walking. I keep my mind to myself.

Ok. I won't wait no more. I'll stroll around. I'll see what I can do not to stab people in the eyes for being such a lame excuses for human beings.

And I'll have another cup o'coffee.

Smart Alec

-Part IV-

Ms. B. says it allatime: that we're doomed. That we've no salvation. That life, as we perceive it, is aging, is rotting, is forgetting. Ms. B. is kinda right, but refuses to acknowledge that. Ms. B. is wide awake, running with rats she knows will never realize the fact that they're mice.

Ms. B. told me once that she was leaving. After some 30 years of incessant reading and learning and thinking, she was leaving. Ms. B. has left in that sunny (albeit cold) Sunday afternoon. She's gone fishing. Now she works 9 to 5, she works out, she pretends she's dumb. Oh, the dumber, the easier, she'd say.

Ms. B., her eyes, are sad. She didn't manage to kill herself totally. She's still there, buried, though, but still alive. Ms. B. just doesn't fit her dream of beigeness. Ms. B. lacks ordinarity.

Someday Ms. B. will grow tired of being this well-adjusted productive law-abiding beautiful human being. Tentacles will grow off her shoulders, her hair will turn green, her legs will stretch to impossible lenght an she'll tear off one of her breasts. Then she'll learn portuguese and walk with derviches. And she'll start a religion, stop worring about her weight and won't spare dumb people anymore.

And then, she'll be able to die. Again.

Read my lips

-Part III-

Grumpy. Harsh. Inconsistent. Obnoxious. Unsupporting. Mean. Dirty. Mischievous. Rude. Scornful.
Oh, yeah. I'm your fucking wet dream of a guy, babe.

Noblesse oblige

-Part II-

I never was so sure. Not until now. What's immutable? Nothing. Plus ça change, blah, blah, though. And yet, I knew changes weren't permanet; but change is.

Grab yourselves. Fasten your seatbelts. Certainties are abound tonight.

And fear, my oldest companion, siamese fucking twin brothers, them: fear and doubt. Fear, ol' pal, where the heck're ya going? First, doubt left; now you seem to be dimming. Shrinking into oblivion. I'm afraid —isn't it weird?— of losing my doubts. Of becoming one of those "I know" no-good zombies. Heavens, no! It starts like this and then you wake wearing a tie. Yikes.

But I'm afraid it'll happen. Eventually. And then I'll die. First, I'll be sure. Sure of something. I'll know. Then, I'll lose all my fears, I'll have them disappear. And when you've no more fear, it's frightening as hell.

Shame

-Part I-

She never saw that coming, ya dig? It was all over in few seconds. A whole life, a lifetime in three seconds: bam!

The only thing she could think about was what was it she'd be having for dinner, since she won't be dining with him anymore. She will never, in fact, share another meal with this despicable person. No, sir.

And then, out of the blue, she grabs a lipstick from her purse, ya know, and start making lines all over her arms —those white, long, beautiful foxey arms of hers. Brother, we all freaked out. What was she doing?

But it worked. The guy just panicked and his coolness was history.

She spinned and took off. He was like: whaddafuck, I need you, where're ya goin'?

She's gone. And here we are, waiting for her. Five more minutes or so and she'll tell you herself. And d'ya wanna know something? It's worth to know why. I'd never have guessed.

No rest for the two-bit wicked — Being a melodrama in sixteen parts

-Introduction-

Under any circumstances let me tell you what to do. You can read; you can listen. But if I ever notice you following my lead, you're history. I'll shut up for good.

Now, have a seat, children, and wipe your noses, for the melodrama is about to begin, even though it has already ended.

Have this in mind: it's all true, and it is not —it couldn't be. But I'm not making this up while I go babbling: you are.

One last thing, before we go, and I won't repeat it: it ain't worthy.

Signal to noise

Far, far, friggin' fuckin' far away. That far. Unreachable.

My mind wanders, go parsecs before I even be aware of that. In seconds, it covered time-space beyond your comprehension. I chase. I lose. I gather what it leaves behind, breadcrumbs, hints of whatever goes through those synapses while I'm not paying attention.

Man, it is wild.

Useless to say it doesn't make any sense. It's not a puzzle: it's noise. Pure white noise. And if you can unscramble it, brother, you've some sick, sick mind. Better look for help.

Whatever's left doesn't bring closure, doesn't give me a clue. And I'm quite too close for comfort anyway. So this is it. Short periods. Nonsense. Idiosyncrasies. Noise.

You. What was it you expected to find here?

God given unpleasantness

Red can of Pringle's in my desk makes way of pencil can, although it carries stuff wich ended up there without me having no idea how.

Zoot and Lisa jam endlessly. They take turns. She plays an impossible (for her age and size) baritone and he blows his remaining brain cells into a tenor-sized alto sax. They change chords. They avoid 20 minutes-long solos. They abhore Jarry Garcia's party. And, boy, they groove.

Mindless typing just before working hours. The ennui downs on me. It's gonna be long 'til I finally get outta here. I'll make my day worth, for what I care. I'll make your life harder, for all it's worth.

Ain't I a sport?

Bad DNA

She drove real fast down that driveway, revvin' it like it was armageddon and she'd spotted the way out.

She swears at every turn: it's the last fucking time. No more ms. Nice Gal. No more. Enough.

Driven. She's fed up. She won't be able to play along anymore. She needs a gun, a chainsaw, an ACME anvil-materializator. Right now, she could use a portable ACME hole. Several of them.

Bad DNA. The whole human race. Armageddon never sounded so sweet.

Put the blame on Mame

Act like you have no idea what the fuck is going on. Fake a momentaneous lack of sanity. Dodge. Run to the hills and play some riffs on your way out. You gotta be kiddin' me.

I do prefer to play the dirty bastard. The fucko who has all the answers—and most of them are rather unpleasant. I will make no prisioners. I make no compromises. I stand for what I've done and brag about it. I'm not allways right, you see, I seldom am. But I did it, and nothing you fancy-pants can do will change that.

Yeah, you can now shove your $3k cell phone and start crying. I'm the muthafucka you'll never have anything to control with. And I change my mind a lot. Better watch your back.

All in all, at the end of the day, it's been Col. Mustard. With the rope. In the dining room.

Me? I did it, no qualms about it. Mine is hell. I'm hell.

Settin' the pace

I can't hear, you know. It's a babbling indistinguishable sound. It coulda be one of those electronic music people pay not to listen to. A friggin' musical moiré.

So, excuse me if I don't stay for the whatever you wanted me to stay for. It's a matter of not being able to get that dumb—the only fear I have, actually.

To become dumb: that's what scares me the most. So I'll scram this time. Thanks for being elucidative. And let me add, on my way out: since you're that dumb, shouldn't you be good-looking?

Save the drama to ya momma

Maybe one day I'll reach that nu state in wich anything is everything and everything is nothing. And nothingness rock. Big time.

Maybe I'll see the Buddha and recognize myself, but I very doubt it, and I'm not willing to hold my breath and wait.

Even though maybe I should.

In the meantime, I'll keep being your run-of-the-mill selfish, insecure, full-of-hopes kinda guy. Supermarket shelter material. Ordinary to the bone. And suffering every minute of it.

And if you just say those words I crave, I can grab it on the fly and call it a day.

Pattern recognition

Ever took a dive into the magnificent maze of women logic? Take this phrase from a girl friend, f'r instance:

If the shoes look just right on a woman's feet, she's in pain.

Utterly, excruciating pain, she latter explained. In fact—she wanted—, the more beautiful they look, the more ugly it will be when they come off.

Ouch. So much to learn, so little time…

Nothing really matters

Got to be honest here (and now). This blog doesn't make any difference. You'll be no wiser or smarter. You won't be any more beautiful. Your penis will grow no bigger. Your mortgage won't be paid.
So, scram.