TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY
folks, i plug in the brown wire with the three-pronged adapter extension cord into the little hole every morning after my Starbucks Coffee flavor, i discontinued the Double Shot Espressos, even the light grey-can ones got me painful explosive diarrhea, i turn on this idiot box known as the computer, this idiot box which has replaced the previous idiot box tv, and i try to type words which will make me feel better and entertain the masses, except there are no masses, only tired Catholic Mass.
there is such a temptation for all of us to go into troll mode when we start writing, it's so hard to keep sincere because we realize that we can literally type ANYTHING, we can pretend we're Superman, or She-Ra for the boys, we're instantly a part of this ever-anonymous world where we can hide behind screens and type away any word, ANY word we want.
i fall into this daily, i try to make it fun and joking, perhaps i haven't succeeded, but if you shared a laugh with me, know that this whole computer living thing was meant to be fun, i am the very embodiment of the WHY SO SERIOUS? meme. it's so difficult, isn't it? you begin by earnestly typing a memoir of your battle with cancer or your depression struggles, but you realize that you can concoct a story of wondrous unicorns and far-off places you want to visit but can't afford to. also, interaction on the internets is very suspect and hinges on shaky legs and a giant troll-face as your giant fall balloon as you stand there like the Flying Wallendas on a very thin tightrope trying to be stern telling your story. i mean, if your potential to go crazy online is there as the blog author, imagine anyone anywhere in the world who has the chance to comment at your blog and make his mark felt, the troll potential there is a hundred-fold. plus, all the visitor to your blog has to do is make his ONE attempt and leave forever, his sentence of shame, that paragraph that when you read it at first, it seems sympathetic to your cause, but slowly degenerates when you read the words "asshole" and "Papi Smurf" together, that's when you've been had. there is only one solution: realize what the internet really is, the limits of it, the actual real limits of it, that it is the death of sincerity, that "internet love" is pretty much an oxymoron, and decide to play ball, warts and all. you must make friends with the trolls, ignoring them will just make them madder, loving them, like Jesus would, is the way to soften their hearts, for after all, trolls are people, too, they just want to be recognized for the geniuses they are, they want to get noticed and counted among humanity, this great humanity that somehow continues to get by despite its horrid history. kiss a troll today, and tell them i sent you....actually, don't, i get enough spam as is.
i've learned that i should have gotten a female cat at the SPCA pound, i think i had the chance with that furry tiny black kitten i saw, but i went with the strong male orange tabby, i was still heartbroken and mind-glazed over losing my Persian of ten years, i wasn't thinking straight, it all happened the same day remember. i do love the new cat, but even as a baby, this mini lion i think could kill me in my sleep, he's that strong with his jaw of teeth and claws. i love him, but i fear him, the way a street-sweeper would his banana-republic dictator. the problem nowadays is ants, fucking ants everywhere, ants in his bowls of food and water, man, do you know how depressing it is to wake up and find five or six ants in the cat's food, ruining the food for that day, and him not eating the food so i'm thinking he's gonna spit out bile again from malnutrition, i monitored that in the first week, but of course the other way is bad, too, when you overfeed your cat you get those obese cats who can't move on the news just laying there done with life, with the hot lights of the tv crew bearing down on the poor cat's sad mellow face? what's the cat supposed to do? to say? he liked food too much, is that a crime? apparently.
thing is, i used to love ants generally, cartoon ants, that ANts movie a few childhoods back, it was all good, but i've learned to hate them. i'm sorry, i'm a hippie, i should love every living thing, especially the smallest of the bunch, but these ants are deceptive and cunning for their small size, and we all know from nature class that they can lift, like, ten times their weight or something, so they're not as helpless as all that. in their final act of defiance, if you ever push to death an ant with your finger, it leaves a terrible gas odor on your damn finger, you have to wash it every time you do before you touch any raw chicken, it's quite annoying, are they fucking made of arsenic or something? man...i wonder when i die, if God Himself (NIN reference) will reach his thumb over to me and squash me under it like the perspective bug i am, Twilight-Zone-style, that would be karmic cosmic justice.
because the ants will come into our room at the very hint of any food or drink, i can't eat or drink anymore in my room like i used to do, it was so comfortable for me to be the eating loner in my room ruminating on what i was gonna write next on my blog on my ipad mini. i ate all three meals in there, i do open the window, i learned that in the third year, to make the smell at least a little tolerable, and i was a happy goth clam. it's not just the three meals that i have to eat in the kitchen, it's the snacks, y'know, i would have a can of soda and a bag of chips just beside me in bed as i watched tv or vegged or thought or typed, you get used to that routine of feeding and liquidating your mind and then transferring that energy immediately into your typing fingers to complete that dynamic next stanza of poetry. now i can't have my Fanta and Triscuits, i have to take the long walk to the kitchen and stand around in the cold kitchen with its one working light that spreads the powder-green alien light like a Costco Warehouse onto the area, stand there for five minutes as i shovel the crackers and sips of carbonated beverage into my mouth, and walk back to my room. it's a fucking waste of time and foot exercise, i don't need to work out, i'm a rail-thin skinny future rock star, where is my rider, i want to amend!
it messes up the writing pattern, too. i have a brilliant idea, usually fed with the food/drink right there, and it's in print there, done, all within a space and time of thirty seconds, nice and efficient like Human Centipede. now because i suddenly have a lot of roaming around to do, the brilliant thought gets changed, lost, or worse, i keep thinking it can be better, funnier, better, better, always better, but it was good the way it was, better, better, better word, better choice of word...
i have been reduced to what i dub "manor living." this is what would go on if i lived in a stately mansion in the English countryside. you never bring your leftover tea and weed muchies into the place where you sleep, the bedroom, the fancy boudoir, no no, you take your meals AND your three snacks always either in the expensive dining hall or the spacious kitchen where Chef will accommodate you.......actually, hmmmm, this is a cool thing after all, it's like i'm living in the Clue mansion, and we all know Clue is the greatest board game ever invented, so i'm down, once i get my rope and lead pipe...to fix the burst pipes, what did you think?
i cried this morning on my birthday as i looked back at what my life has become. it is now, and i think the final verdict of it will be, that my life was a waste of potential. i was smart enough to be President, devious enough to be a CEO, athletic enough to be the next Federer, talented enough to be an artist, and fucked-up enough to be an actor, but the depression has killed all my dreams. i am the lowliest of the low, i'm a...can't even say it through the tears...i'm a...Momma i'm sorry...i'm a blogger!
i know, i know, i, can't, i can't do this anymore, i can't type another meaningless word...
women like men who cry, right? that's emotional intelligence, or do i have that backwards? is macho still in? the currents run too hot and cold, i can't keep up on the rapids of love. a grown man crying is a pretty...ugly...sight, the Rolling Stones wrote a song about it, and that lead singer danced his wild unique flailing dance over it, so it can't be all bad. i need comfort...porn is dead...i beat the Last Boss on all my video games...dating sites are frauds...i need a woman, like that Live song implores...now
folks, this is probably the last time i'll be here with all of you lovely blog folk on my birthday like this, so i'm asking like a carnival barker for a lot of comments at this post, it's your last chance to interact. if not my birthday, when? if not now, when? let's have everyone come visit me, you can leave a comment, i'll comment back, and we can talk about this horrible thing called life. yes, this is a cheap ploy for comments, but when has it ever been otherwise? i mean, this REALLY is my birthday day, of this i am being perfectly truthful, can't i have this one thing, Helen?! pretending here Helen is my wife in an Archie-Bunker-type one-act play i'm working on...
the laughing is a good buffer, but it seems the overall darkness in me is winning. it's a good thing i have the poetry to fill my serious vase with when i get too real me. what do they say about the best comedians?...
for Jenny Last Name: Conquistador, the one with the blonde hair and the drama, it was always only ever you, this computer life never mattered, but you always will x
and now, my friends, Olivia Wilde and her animated boobs and i retire to bed...to sleep, to dream, to play, to wake up on the other side, to come