The thing they don’t tell you about arterial blood is that it is just so much darker than what they show on television when people do heinous things to not-so-heinous people. They always make it look like this Campbell’s tomato soup color when it is this rick and dark red that, like I am doing right this very second, you want a roll in it and have it cover you like a blanket, wiping away any other color, any other light that would dare intrude into such an intimate picture. It is warm and wet, like so many things that are sexual and sensual. It is coppery in your mouth as you roll it along the tip of your tongue and it catches, just a bit, in the back of your throat as your brain reminds you just what exactly is it you are doing, almost a way of making sure you truly want to become what you are trying to be.

I am a bit past where you are, however, so allow me to explain.

A little more than an hour ago, in a very uppity part of Manhattan, I took a chef’s knife from the block in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. It was a gorgeous thing that was this beautiful Damascus patterned steel that looked like explosions and supernovas to my unknowing eyes. It had a handle of, I assume, faux ivory and I walked into the study she was sitting in and I proceeded to remove her head from her shoulders. It is a task that I did not expect to be easy, but it took far longer than I anticipated it taking and a few tools I had to go back into the kitchen to retrieve. The Wusthoff cleaver she had finally got through the spine. It took me a few times, but if I may add, it was a half an hour or so into the ordeal and I am not a particularly large human being.

What, what do you mean you want to know why I did such a thing?

Fine. Christ, people just can’t be content with being told a good story anymore. They have to know about the fucking life of the artist and see if it fits his fucking oeuvre. Choosy fucking beggars I swear…

You want to know why I am laying in a pool of blood and drinking it alternatively like Kool-Air and Merlot?

I was walking down the street to see her this afternoon. My wife asked me to come and pick up some papers from her so we could do her taxes, and it just occurred to me that instead of all of that I could just cut the fucking woman’s head off and swim around naked in her blood like Count Bathory of modern times and then clean up and go home, not forgetting the papers, of course, taxes are important.

Did she do anything wrong?

No, why would you ask me that?

Did she deserve to die? I have no fucking idea. I am not an all-knowing seeker of truth. I wanted to cut her head off and, well, I did.

Sorry, were you expecting me to tell you I had a horrid childhood? That my mummy raped me and daddy beat me?

No sugar tits, sometimes you just want to go and cut a fucking head off.

To Stink, Or Not To Stink? Is It Really A Question?

Thioacetone is an organosulfur compound with the chemical formula C3H6S.

Yup, I just wrote that sentence. Why? Well, I was going to write a story about a terrorist that essentially disables entire city blocks by making people pass out from a thing that smells so bad that it makes you pass out from the fumes. Oh yeah, true story. Look it up, Oxford in ‘67, nasty stuff.

Then, in a moment of what I can only call clarity, a few things occurred to me. I shall present these in a nice bulleted list below.

  • I know nothing about chemistry.
  • Do I want to write a story about a brown liquid that smells super bad?
  • Who wants to read this story?
  • There are things a dude on a couch should maybe not write.
  • Finally, and importantly, see bullet point the first.

I try to stay in my wheelhouse when I write things. I research as I can, do my due diligence to at least make it sound authentic, but I am pretty sure that my writing about chemistry is like a baboon describing what it is like to swim next to a blue whale. I write stories, not science.

Bet you didn’t see this bridge coming.

This is why these motherfuckers writing about a virus they don’t know a goddamn thing about pisses me right the fuck off. I mean, fuck man, people have died because of the idiocies that have been spread over this thing. The couple in Arizona that drank chloroquine phosphate. Do you know what chloroquine phosphate is? Yeah, I had to Google it too. Just because SqueezyCheese says a thing does not make it the fucking gospel. There are these people that go to school for a very long time to learn what these things are, Google is not an M.D.

Do not take medicines doctors have not told you to take. I know that is ironic coming from the junkie, but come on man, a little common sense goes a long way here. When you get the aforementioned “medication” from a thing that kills parasites in your koi pond, maybe, just maybe, you should fucking reevaluate your decision-making paradigm there a second friend.

They are listening to a man who says more stupid things in an average tweet than some people say in years. A man who is literally composed of hamburgers and spray tan, a man who laughs in the face of people dying because he wants money.


I Could Tell You What This Is About, But That Would Require Me To Know That Pertinent Detail.

Rather than write the utterly banal attempt of comedy I was about to try and write, I decided that hey, Theology sounds like a good substitute for comedy. I mean, who doesn’t want to learn about some random dudes personalized system of daily belief structure explained within an ever-shifting and even more personal metaphor. I know I’m all in!

Life is all about balance. I am not the first nor will I be the last person to say this at all. I think good and evil is a little too bland and vague for the purposes of it though, balance is maintained, and destroyed, by two groups whom by their very nature are exact opposites. I will simplify the internal monologue shit and call them the Givers and the Takers.

Those who Give, as you can imagine, are generous by nature. They give love, compassion, kindness, and grace in addition to the material things of the world that they can spare. Those who take not only take all of those things that those who Give offer, but they take that which is not offered freely, such as your time, your patience, your energy and even your very will.

In the middle of all of this, or I should say containing all of this, is The Fulcrum. It is that which must be balanced. It is life and death, hope and fear, love and resentment. It is existence and what comes after. It is everything and anything you can imagine.

I know I lost a bunch of you, and that is okay. My hippie loving, barefoot needing, not so much of a granola fan, self is not for anyone other than me. I am writing this mainly as a thing to do and not as a means of proselytizing in any way whatsoever. I have done the Shepard thing, y’all can have that job and the collar that comes with it. I am writing because writing is what I do. It is my Zen, my Center and it is all good if you skip this and head over to the beheading things…..yeah that’s totally coming next.

It sounds familiar you say? That’s because I stole most of it from Stephen King, Heinlein, a little crazy from Hubbard and the rest from some Germanic deities you may have heard of if you know the days of the week in the English language.

What else though, is that overall of that is the Goddess entire. If the Fulcrum is existence, she is that which carries it in her arms. My views of the Goddess are different than other people because religion is supposed to be a highly individualized, sacred, and personal thing. That includes not having one at all I may add, free will works that way for a reason.

I know I am rambling now, I might as well go with it though.

When I close my eyes each night, I see the Goddess, My Goddess, in the eyes over every woman I have ever loved combined in a beautiful framework I will not begin to try to explain while not royally stoned. I am not free to name names here, but know that if you identify as female and I have told you I love you, then you are in this framework of my personal eternity. Sorry if that totes creeps you out, it is the way it is?

That was rude.

I internalize everything see. It is how I process. The problem with the way I do it is that I both internalize too quickly and I never get any of it out. If you have ever tried to follow my metaphor of the planes you may have a clue what I am talking about here. If not, well, picture every picture you ever looked at being cataloged, but with no index, no reference and no clue as to how to look though, search through or even get rid of the damn thing.

It is, for example, why I can still remember the song I made for all ten of my ex-wife’s toes, the entire second act of Hamlet verbatim and how to exorcise in three languages. I am not boasting, I want to dump it, if y’all have ideas on how to do a hard format of that shit, I would really appreciate a nice reload of the brain.

So now I have taken up a few minutes of your time, I have written for maybe six minutes on my end and I can finally go and half that delightful fourth cup of coffee at ten minutes after three in the afternoon.

Vive La Différence!

The Card – Introduction – Finale

A few hours before…

Al had been putting off everything for weeks now. He could not think of a way to come up with that much money no matter where he parked his brain. At first, he thought he could shift a few ones and zeroes in the ledgers of his clients and maybe get what he needed that way and then he realized he never touched the fucking money. All that would do is make someone very happy, or very, very mad. He didn’t have anyone in his life with that kind of money, he didn’t have any credit to speak of so a loan that large was out of the question.

In short, he was fucked.

He was sitting on the steps outside of his flat, his feet tapping like a dancer on the cobblestone of the street. His hands were twirling a pen like it was a baton and his eyes were staring at nothing his mind pretty much have decided to give in to the infinite and die, at least if he died first he wouldn’t have to sit and watch all those wonderful people in his life die. He was ashamed he thought this way, but he had nothing at all left, nothing.

Al sat there, feeling sorry for himself and he felt a pain in his right thigh.

“What the fuck!” He jumped up and smashed his hand against his pants, hopefully killing the fucking bugger who had bit him. Damn thing must have crawled up his bloody pant leg as he was sitting out here feeling sorry for himself and condemning the people he loved the most in the world to die most likely very slow and painful deaths ant the hands of a man who more resembled an angry baboon than a human being.

Al looked at his hand and did not have the satisfaction of seeing a smashed bug, shaking his pant legs he saw nothing tumble out and the bite was still smarting. He reached into his pocket, the thing might have gotten into it and pit him from there. He dug around and at first, he thought he had the little fuck but when he ran his fingers over what he thought was a bug he furrowed his brown in confusion as he pulled a card out of his pocket.

That old man who had asked for a light, this was the card he had given him right? He looked and it and it was nothing special, nothing special at all, except all he could do was look at it. He didn’t particularly want to, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the damn thing no matter how hard he tried. Flat black, nothing on it at all. nothing.

Al was getting fucking spooked now and he blinked a few times and he saw the fucking thing change. A number, a number was there. What the fuck is this shit. Now the world was completely fucking crazy.

The card changed in front of him. A little tear here, a little wear there. it was spreading and even as he looked at it. His finger started to burn where it was holding the card and he cried out, the damn thing was like fire but…in the muscles and the bone.

He screamed as it got worse and his eyes shut and he was out.

When he came to he was staring at the card, he had no idea why he was looking at the stupid card he had been given, but he knew, just knew, he had to call the number.

He just had to.

The Mind Of An Introvert In Consensual, Non-Consensual, Social Isolation – Day The Monday

Monday, right?

I am pretty sure it is Monday because I had to wake the Elder Duck up so he could do the remote school thing and be the smart one in the family and go on to do great things, most likely in Astrophysics, at least that is the interest at the moment. I am so proud of him. All AP classes next year, that is including the extra one he actually asked to be in. I am not stupid, but that boy will always put me to shame. I think that is the right way though, the next generation smarter than the last, trying to solve the problems the generations before caused, making their own mistakes for their successors to solve and so on.

Today it is List25 day on YouTube. I mean, it is better than the Super Mario Maker he was watching and a lot more interesting, to him, than the blacksmithing videos I have been hooked on the last few days. I think it was a bad idea to start the day with torture devices, but hey, we all make mistakes right? He loves them and, more importantly, it keeps him enthralled for hours at a time, a thing that is more important now than ever. I will take him outside later if it stops raining, social distancing does not mean stay in your house, just a walk, even if it is around the backyard, let the kid feel the wind on his face for a few minutes if nothing else. I should do the same thing with Connorface, hell it would be easier with his wheelchair anyway actually.

I am going to do this today. Write a blog post, then a story thing, then maybe rinse and repeat. I want to get some things out of my head anyway.

That brings me to a thing.

I love all of you who are concerned about me. I do. I am not a self-harm guy, not anymore. I can promise all sorts of things and I know the score on that. I will just assure you the best way I can that I am simply overtired of a lot of things and I will adjust, I always have and I always will. I don’t handle rapid change particularly well and given the ever-evolving situation we are in presently, I think a little panic and worry is normal if not particularly desirable. I am taking all of the medications I am supposed to, I am eating and drinking and doing as much self-care as I can when I have the Ducks to worry about twenty-four hours a day. I am not critiquing people for their worry, I am just trying to tell you that I am, while not fine, not in that much of the Dark as some of you think I am and if I do get to that place I know what I need to do to get myself out by myself, or, in the worst case, who to call if I cannot.

Now I am going to sit here and listen to War Child by Hollywood Undead, get my brain in storytime mode for a little later. Maybe have another cup of coffee, a little bit of food and see where the day takes me in its ever-spiraling complexity.

I love you all, I do.