Gertrude

Writing from months ago..

Brain fog, limp dick, half ate chicken breast in front of me.  Today is dreary.  I barely feel alive.  Can’t finish the rest of my chicken breast.  Gave away two loads of swimmers that could have been saved to shoot into someone else’s hot wife.  The emptiness and dullness of today is enough for self-mutilation.  Fortunately, tomorrow will save me from today.  There will be no half ate chicken breast in front of me.  My dick will be vigorous, and I won’t touch it.  I’ll have a clear head so I can do the things I like. 

Waiting for today to be over.  The day of the pathetic boy with a drained ball sack and half ate chicken breast will soon fade out of existence. This is a quality of life that I like:  everyday eventually ends and fades into nothing.  Every experience gone with change; this is why monogamous relationships don’t work.  Love is transient and ceases to exist.  If today were given a name, it would be a grotesque one.  Something like Gertrude.

Oh Gertrude how you dull me, sadden me; giving me the perception that life is something unbearable, because today is unbearable.  Oh Gertrude I see past your sham with my conscious monkey brain.  I see that yesterday was different than today and that tomorrow will be different than yesterday and today.  Tomorrow I will not drain my cock of the zeal which will carry me to somewhere other than laying in bed all day lethargic, desperate, and hopeless. 

But Gertrude, I may be able to murder you before today.  Murder you with a cold shower- invigorate myself.  Invigorate myself to study the Western countries of Africa near Senegal.  Invigorate myself to read.  Invigorate myself to learn Elliot Smith on guitar.  Gertrude you’re more precarious than you think.  All that holds you together is a half ate chicken breast and drained cock.  What holds me together is much more. 

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I Want to Run My Hand up Her Fish Net Covered Popliteal

The psyche is formed through assimilating physical compliments.  She was given less compliments than the other one.  Her soul was stronger.  The other one’s soul was abjectly unrousing to my platonic attraction of her.  Despite this, I feel more towards her.  Feel more, towards a vapid piece of flesh.  And the truly beautiful one: my feelings are less acute.  To find the well-rounded women, is a grueling numbers game; one that risks becoming a jaded asshole who finds no joy in life. 

Really, I’m mad I forgot her name- twice.  I’m unabashed, but still feel sorry; feel sorry for her feeling bad.  Taking responsibility for an imperfect memory is stupid. She couldn’t empathize with my imperfection.  I feel indignant and resent this girl.  This is why I hate women; but I unfortunately love them too. This is the problem. 

It was her fault; she was wearing fish nets.  Don’t wear this around me.  I imagine a gold path leading to the inguinal, where a warm moist cunt is ready to console my sexless rabo.  I want to run my hand from her sural and crural, going up to her popliteal and patellar, and finally making my way to the inguinal.  There is something to say about making sexual things all too sexual.  

Accentuation is a form of altering someone else’s reality; like me looking at a person as a piece of meat to jam my rod into.  Islam was on to something.  Ostensibly, Islam took it too far in the other direction.  1940’s America was the perfect medium.  As old man Bill says, these girls leave nothing up to the imagination.  Skirts would be nice. 

I don’t care about changing the female’s reality; philosophizing is fun, and girls interest me, so there you have the perception of a misogynist.  I’m not.  Simply, a frustrated and happy romantic clearing up the obfuscated world through the art of writing.  Lucidity please.  

To Whom am I

Writing for the sufferer

Weights for the social loser

Mountains to climb for the madman

Music for the emotionally sensitive

Netflix, wives, and husbands for the soul robbed workers

Alcohol for the man that has nothing

Nothing for the recluse who wants nothing

Whatever consoles is based out of who you are

To whom suffers and sees all the winding roads laid in front of him, needs consoled through understanding and accepting. 

The power of the sufferer

To whom was rejected by people, needs consoled through re-shaping their identity.

A healthy egotism

The power of the social loser

To whom the plains of the Midwest weren’t enough, needs consoled through the mountains.

The power of the madman

To whom the world was bland and unmysterious, needs consoled through the enigma of music.

The power of the emotionally sensitive

To whom soul was robbed, needs consoled through a personal life insulated from work.

And if marriage isn’t possible, alcohol is the great consoler

The power of the soul-robbed-workers

To whom wants nothing, needs consoled by a hermetic life in the woods

The power of the man who wants nothing

All these winding paths laid in front of me

Now which do I choose

If I must choose, it has already been chosen

To whom am I but a sufferer

This is my seemingly frivolous power

The cries of a sufferer

The Stumbling Why of Writing Horse Shit

Sticking to the things that I like

A like, meaning ease of effort and comfortability

Vance Joy instead of obscure avant-garde jazz which expands my ear pallet

Humorous poetry lines instead of rhythmic goodness

A rhyme is too forced

Too constricting

Stifling self-expression

This is why it’s reverential:

Being able to express yourself in narrow confines takes effort

Something I don’t feel like doing

My mind always in a bind

In a kind of mind-pitiful way

My first step of freeing the bind is to write

Write horrible rhymes

Because the two-step used to fumble me around

While the tail-slide bumbled me about

And that petite blonde at Target used to crumble me down

Now that creature at Target, once hot, scary, and alien

Is now, hot, scary, and non-alien enough to approach sometimes

Stumble about with my words is fine

Because frustration can be placated if you understand the, stumbling why

A Lieutenant is better than a non-lieutenant

In him, a drive, focus, and foresight

Foresight into his future

Foresight induced by understanding the mind’s ability to do great things

Improving

Growing

Learning

 And stumbling about in the meantime

Arrogance and Entitlement: That Guy with Biceps the Size of Cantaloupes is the Same as Me

I command reverential treatment: I have tits and an ass and know the word reverential.

That body builder at Golds Gym with biceps the size of cantaloupes- that’s me.  Me, as an aggregate of all the things I do.  No one views me in that way.  I will never receive the reverential treatment that cantaloupe man does; this is because I have little to nothing to show for.  Nothing to show for the mentally taxing philosophy I endured, mediocre drumming and guitar skills, footslogging through over 160 miles of the CT, basic training if that counts, beautiful prose, and skateboarding which I no longer do because of my bimalleolar fracture.  I have a nice ass from squatting which gets attention, that’s it.  

I should be allowed the same arrogance and haughty strut as cantaloupe man.  I want the same effortless confidence that is a result of effort in personal pursuits; I want more social confidence.  Enough confidence to allow me to hit on that petite brunette at the gym today.  My greatness isn’t easily accessible; I’m not suspect of it due to my inconspicuousness.  In fact, I contradict myself and efface any greatness, by veiling it with simple clothes, normal conversations, small talk rituals, and an incognito car. Sometimes I go as far as belittling myself. 

If science permitted, I would contrast my total amount of effort, to a mono-maniac’s total life effort.  Then, I would manifest my effort into biceps, and compare them to the mono-maniac’s cantaloupe biceps.  Objective truth would be found, and I could either sprinkle more haughtiness in my walk or sleep in an extra hour because I feel like an impotent loser. 

Winning the monkey competition feels unattainable to me.  I can’t compete with gym bros, narcissists, and entrepreneurs.  The best I could try, is to bare my soul out to people and learn an art form to paint with my retarded being.  If I wanted to label myself, it would be a semi-convicted artist, who would be a more respectable version of an artist, if he learned grammatical nuances and dropped his hobby of cold approaching girls, to instead write and play guitar more often.  You make up for your lack of sustenance by hitting on lots of women, or you make up for your lack of hitting on a plethora of women by developing yourself.

Here I am destroying the beautiful art form of prose by regressing into a vapid monkey who talks about women and cantaloupe biceps; at least it’s self-explorational. What else is there to talk about; I already know that everything is perspective and that points of view are infinite.  I expected to be gifted some sort of tangible truth about the world and myself through my incessant self-investigation, philosophy studies, and conversational shroom trips with friends and co-workers.  Instead, my world feels more obfuscated and chaotic.  The truth I found, is that there are multiple. Or, like that philosopher with large cantaloupes said: all I know is that I don’t know nothing.

New Year’s Flakes

Looking in retrospect at my rejection: Was I too stupid, arrogant, a bad kisser? Were my lips too chap? Did she see my chub while walking out of the hotel lobby after making out? It could’ve been her. She could’ve been waiting for the comforting post-date-text; thinking I would reject her, she rejected me. It was like a light switch. Her interest in me was an omnipresent light, supplying me with joy and validation; her light allowed me to see myself vicariously through her, as if my identity was based out of her view of me. Her attraction, interest, and curiosity towards me- all false now. The light turned off, leaving me in the dark with no identity, no love. She saw who I was, turned the light off and left.

On the day before New Year’s, she rejected me.  They say it was her.  It’s always me- she rejected me.  She said it was another guy she had feelings for.  That makes it worse; I lost a competition.  Someone more superior than I, pummeling me into the basement, where I look at the wall in despair and write angsty poetry on post it notes while reverberating my head into the wall.  Humor is all that grounds me- telling me it’s the human condition and not me.  There’s no other guy, if there is she didn’t kiss him.  She was inexperienced.  Did nothing original and mirrored my movements.  Maybe that’s it- I was moving too fast.

Thinking my entire relationship with this girl was built on a sham, is enough to send me over. Did I act as someone to conceal my precarious identity? I’m haunted by an emptiness of being nobody. Haunted by being destitute of witty ideas, respectable passions, a good job, good body, emotional intelligence, conversational value, etc. Deep down, I am destitute; no cares about having a meaningful job, not interested in politics and insular morals. I don’t want to be anybody. Maybe I’m an apathetic humble soul who enjoys looking with his third eye on the infinite possibilities and points of view. An indecisive man forced into paralysis because of his pathetic search for truth. Maybe she would like me for me. Instead, I tried to instill dread through indirectly communicating that I’m some player who other girls want to fuck. She saw past the sham.

Day before New Year’s she rejected me.  It was fine because there was another one.  I had plans with Elle- two tickets to silent disco.  I was sure she would go.  Hours later, she texts saying, I can’t go, sorry.  Serendipity, I hope; a couple of light heartbreaks to prepare me for breaking up with my girlfriend of two years, who I’ll be deeply in love with, in the future. These New Year’s flakes may have kept me from leaving my dead corpse by the river with a helium tank by side.  I’m thankful for that, and the make out sessions in the hotel lobby.  It’s now 2022.

Tin Can Lost on an Interstate

Thirteen hours in a stuffy tin can, packed full, leaving no crevasses available.  Leaving was an odd feeling- like finishing a book.  Feelings of nostalgia rushed in, making my past into something sentimental, old, and sad.  It’s a feeling of understanding you’ll never get that time back.  The good and bad memories will never be relived.  Leaving my friends house after saying goodbye felt like this.  I grew up in this town.  It’s where I had my first year of public school, where I surveyed the town while riding bikes with the rest of the posse; my first drink, first blunt; climbing grain elevators and hanging off with one hand, shooting signs with shotguns, gazing into a fire by the river all night.  It used to be an innocent town when I was young.  Work turned it ill. 

I left.  Two years was too long at that job; I overstayed my welcome.  Give your boss a couple months’ notice and you’ll play hockey and grill on your last day.  This is better than climbing a couple hundred feet to get to something broke.  It’s not a job to complain about, but it’s a job, which means two years.  At the two-year mark, I regressed to writing angsty poetry about eating razorblades and banging my head into the wall on post it notes.  If you’re going to last, streaming subscriptions are a must, alcohol seven days a week, and a corpse living inside your four walls who lets you suck their blood.  Your personal life isn’t a bright contrast; it’s a stark corollary that has everything in common with the soul sucking nine to five monster that penetrates your pussy with it’s barbed wired demon rabo.  Work work work.

I was off to Tennessee in my stuffed Toyota Matrix.  It consoles me nicely, due to its inconspicuousness; I prefer a particular type of attention.   My identity as someone who is tacky and flashy would destroy me; the Matrix keeps me far away from that.  A few hours in, I stopped in Cedar Rapids for pho.  Saying I like pho, is like saying I listen to Nirvana.  Great band, but too many people listen to them; people who listen to Nirvana, usually listen to accessible music.  I can’t be identified with these people; I can’t be identified with anyone.  The pho was mediocre.  I’ve had better. 

The pussy juice on my Prana hiking pants compensated for mediocre pho.  I had never been to a strip club by myself.  Curiosity and pride of getting out of my comfort zone took me from mediocre pho to a mediocre wet pussy rubbing on my rabo.  I would date a stripper who strips for money and power instead of sluttiness.  There’s a self-insight strippers have; they know their power and have the balls to indulge in it.  Punk: they’re devoid of caring about judgement, societal pressure, and holiness. 

Double lizard tongue squirming in my face.  I’m Jinx she says.  I held in a chuckle, to keep the act from falling apart.  Her hair was buzzed, and face decorated with piercings.  We talked about literature and writing for a bit.  Jinx said to listen to erotic literature on my drive to Tennessee.  I held in another chuckle.  She swayed her ass in my face then left.  Taking Jinx’s place was a taller, more developed girl.  She sat on my lap and took me back to rows of unintimate office cubicles with semi-transparent drapes and large timers hanging on the wall above love seats.  With her backside facing my front, she began grinding slowly.  Her face close to mine and breathing heavy while I was groping at her fake tits; more intimate than the cubicle scene lead on.  When she turned around, I could see her wet pussy; either a great actor or she was having a nice break from the superfluous truck drivers.  An act almost made real by desperation.

 I went off into the night, floating down the interstate buzzed, with stimulating music forcing me into oblivion.  So at peace and tranquil that I didn’t need to jerk my teased and sad dick. Ten hours later I arrived in rocky top; I doubt I’ll be needing any strippers here.  This land is blessed, and I bought Clark Kent blue light glasses to compliment my above average physique.  My alter ago is going to be Binx.

Fear and Loathing During a Blizzard in Iowa

A true story

Snow flying into the wind shield of a Chevy S10 like the millennium falcon taking off at light speed.  They were lost on a gravel road in the barren landscape of Iowa.  It was a winter wasteland outside; drifts obscuring everything, but twenty-five feet of visibility.  Inside the S10 was a consoling interior that felt tough and protective, because of its age.  Inside, were two odd beings.  The driver was a wiry lean middle-aged man of forty, who had a young energy and look to him; his facial features were distinct, with a sharp jaw that slightly accentuated a chin, giving the appearance of a villain.  Next to him was an inquisitive young man, of twenty-two. He was slightly shorter with a more muscular frame.  His face was youthful and curious looking, marked by a wider, less sharp jaw which gave the appearance of a superhero.

 There was an intent in what they were doing- cruising in a blizzard while on psychedelics not out of dissipation, but to explore their minds and the world.  They were too honest for pretentious hippie talk; their conversations were marked by candidness and scrutinization.  Neither could get away from their idea or view getting picked apart by the other.  To look in hindsight at their own conversation would be ridiculous and difficult to achieve; like eating a great dish, once ate, the experience no longer exists and is forgotten.  They acknowledged and accepted that when no longer absorbed in thought, there would be no trophy, no reminder- a transient experience that will soon be out of reach and forgotten.  A sort of living for the sake of living, instead of getting a trophy wife and trophy job to build a sham out of insecurity and ego.

They drove into a small town to have a lull in their conversation.  The S10 pulled up to the pump on fumes.  On the pump was a screen playing entertainment; it would allure you with its images and sounds.  It was a dystopia they were living in; it made their adventure feel like an act of rebellion.  After filling up the tank and launching snowballs at the super-unleaded sign, they drove to the nearest watering hole, as the mushrooms started to wane.  They entered the bar and were greeted by a slight anxiety based out of other people’s judgements of them.  Taking a shot of fireball, they laughed at their unfortunate nature and become at ease with who they were. 

Outside, the blizzard continued.  The few cars passing through the night, gave the town an enigmatic and desolate feel.  The wanderers came out of the entrance and onto the street where the truck was parked.  Minutes later they were back on a gravel road.  For this night they were no longer members of society, no longer blue-collar workers, no longer consumers, no longer fake actors playing roles.  Both were night wanderers, conscious minds and beings, explorers of the time they were part of.  For once they were human. 

It’s funny, something as simple as a bad high-school experience can break the psyche.  The stupidity, destitution, and cruelness of the people who caused them their pain, had a comedic value to it; the tragedy of life was valuable and painted life with beauty.  Ugliness, loneliness, death, suffering, pain- all of it was funny and would eventually cease to matter.  To deal with pain, required an objectivity and labeling and dismissing of feelings, but that was the evolutionary coping mechanism they were given.  Their forced coping mechanism too, had a comedic tune to it. 

The villain told the superhero to be wary of being vulnerable with women: sexual relationships are monkey dynamics, marked by forces that have no rational, no empathy, no kindness.  Sexual relationships are survival.  Be vulnerable and engage in deep thought- attraction will be stifled out of existence.  Love is an idealistic thing; something better used for movies, books, songs, imagination.  Love will always be crushed by the physical.  Still, the villain believed in love.  His love was realistic and marked by tragedy.  The superhero was consumed by an idealistic view, which breed cynicism.  There was no love in the superhero’s heart.  He could not come to terms with love as an imperfect thing; he hung onto his truth like it was truth.

Patience the villain would say.  The hero only believed in action; believed only in making one’s circumstances better.  Life would never do anything for the superhero; life was something to be acted on.  The hero could only interpret patience as something intertwined with confidence in one’s abilities to achieve- a view of patience that sounded more like impatience.  And despite having less action than the hero, the villain seemed to have a happier life. 

The hero and the villain gave each other something that snowy night.  A synergy was created.  The villain an expert of the physical. The hopeless hero an expert of the metaphysical.  Knowledge, experience, and realism in contrast to the young hero’s idealism, lust for life, and wisdom acquired through the mind.  Both wanderers of a barren dystopic wasteland in the middle of a blizzard on a Friday night. 

Scared and Sad 167 pound Man Singing the Blues

Beat down like a pitiful dog. In retrospect I wasn’t as lonely when I stayed home alone, read, wrote, and played guitar. I go out and socialize with the less precarious and confident selves. They seem genuine, even when talking about The Game. For me it feels pretentious to say hi how are you. Dancing is slightly better; it’s like music and writing- less clouded by deceptiveness and manipulation. Hi how are you means, I want to fuck. Why can’t I just say what I feel? Maybe I can. I’m too scared and insecure in the value and being I have to offer. I should learn to say hi first.

We danced, and she gave back what I put in.  Usually, they make me put on some peacock circus show, while they approve or decline.  She was good- spun me around while we were dancing.  Then I missed the que to escalate, and just like that, attraction became null and we continued to party, drift apart, live our lives, and die never seeing each other again.  Another door closes in my face.  The brick from the path behind, lifts into the sky, obliterates, and sprinkles ashes over my face as a reminder of my failure. 

Then my best friend beats me with a stick while I’m lying on the cold ground.  If I were single this would be so easy.  If you can’t get your dick sucked tonight somethings wrong, he says.  Have cameras shoved in your face to show their girlfriends the puss inflamed acne all over.  Strangers juxtaposing a bottom feeding carp next to your face and networking it to their friends to show the similarity between the lack of good facial structure and puffy lips. Girls calling you ugly in high school.  Would it really be easy for you to get your dick sucked tonight then?  I lost the acne and have developed nice facial structure from braces and overbite bands, but the belief of being a viable sexual being is still precarious, despite people saying I’m hot now.

But it won’t be like this forever.  I’ll get fed up as I usually do, hit the coral and go up; twenty-three pounds of mass in less than a year, cold approached over fifty women in two months, rocked my hobbies, et cetera. Even when I forget what my best friend said, the feeling will always be there.  It will manifest into another form of growth like it always does.  Because despite my self-pity there’s a belief that I’ll get over this. 

This is just (in a degrading way of course), my narrative and view.  Maybe he did it as a reaction to my wretchedness.  Or maybe people are assholes because that’s people, and yin and yang, and it is what it is, and whatever other aphorism you want to use to console this obfuscated life.  I don’t like being this chaotic and lost.  Sometimes I wish I could trade it in to be some form of a person: strictly a poet, strictly a musician, strictly whatever. Whatever, I’ll get over this. 

It Can Happen to You

It can happen to anyone.  You can be lifting weights and the ventilation system could crush you.  You can be at Target and see a hot trashy slut.  You can be at Walmart and see a classy woman wearing a skirt who watches Ingmar Bergman films.  You can approach a woman who wants to fuck you too.  You can approach a woman who brushes you off, because she thinks you want to rape her and make gumbo out of her body parts.  You can get laid tomorrow.  You can be a pitiful lonely creature crying in bed because you can’t get laid tomorrow.  You can become indignant and shoot up a school.  You can not shoot up a school and make art instead.  You can be an inertia mass of shit.  You can bury yourself two hundred feet underground in apathy and play videogames all day.  You can quit your job and footslog it through the mountains.  You can become a vagrant who sits on the corner of a street calling people fat pigs.  You can become schizophrenic and make catatonic facial expressions while reading a book out loud in the middle of a city.  You can die.  You can die and go somewhere.  You can die and go nowhere.  You can have an existential crisis.  You can go mad.  You can go so crazy that you pull your hair out while curled up in fetal position on the bathroom floor.  You can hold a Remington 870 to your head and pull the trigger.  You can hold a Remington 870 to your head and not pull the trigger.  You can fall in love.  You can never fall in love.  You can think about the things that can happen to you, or you can not think about the things that can happen to you; both are valid choices.  I try not to think about it too much though.  I’m too busy writing unrefined barbaric caveman shit.