Category Archives: Fiction

Facts, Fiction, Journal, Politics 6 Comments

Now just what the fuck is going on here?

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First of all, FUCK this new WordPress editor and these fucking blocks.

Second of all, what’s up fools!

How am I still getting 30 people visiting this blog a month. What is anyone even looking at? And if you’re going to come all the way here could you at least LIKE something?

It’s a got damned pandemic out there motherfuckers.

Out here in New York City it’s a fucking riot a minute and yet the streets are quiet. They couldn’t even go through with the fucking Firework Conspiracy. If the Police are defunded you can’t even tell. The protests happened and then white people went on road trips. Uhauls everywhere.

The god damned stock market is through the roof as if we’re fucking making something out here, when we ain’t making shit. Millions of crazy ass no job having bastards are out of work and getting paid for it by Milton Friedman and Alan Greenspan.

I got out of bartending at the wrong damn time. Coulda rode straight into this thing, seen the restaurant fall to pieces, collected the UBI and wrote a fucking novel about white fragility.

I ain’t hardly drank alcohol in two fucking years and I ain’t done drugs all summer thanks to social god damned distancing.

I bought this apartment to sleep in but now I gotta live in this bitch.

And they straight sweeping shit under the rug just as fast as people can shit on the floors. These are some Mary Poppins rugs out here y’all.

Bout to have a god damned election in America between a 90 year old white guy and another 90 year old white guy. Who are these old mother fuckers? These fuckers snuck in the ageism trying to make it sound like racism. Talking bout we can’t be ageist. Fuck that shit! These old ass mother fuckers got to go. I’m pretty sure I love my grandfather but I would never listen to that dude tell me how to buy a can of tomatoes so why I’m going to tell him run for president?

Haha! Damn y’all what a world.

What a fucking shit show. And the shit is literally a show. On YouTube we got Malcolm Gladwell out here rolling his eyes about shit he should be killing people over, and Steven Pinker getting upset about it. We got Joe Rogan trolling six million people every Tuesday and Thursday. And while we doing all that, a whole bunch of employees of major news corporations still have jobs just so they can have something to play outside the fake Dunkin Donuts at all the empty ass federally subsidized airports.

Thank God in Xyrs infinite grace we still got Cornell fucking West.

These motherfuckers out here got me ready to self segregate based not on skin color, but based on I don’t want to be round y’all crazy ass weirdos no more. So what I do?

Mofucker I ain’t Jesus, I’m cashing in my privilege with the rest of these assholes and I’m moving up north to a god damned mountain. Fuck this shit y’all do what you want.

Is the Corona real? Is the Movement real? Is the America real? Is the geopolitical landscape real?

Nah man you know what’s real is this terrible ass WordPress editor. All I want to do is type some shit and maybe put a picture in and I got to use these goddamn blocks? What do I look like, Tony Single out here making a comic strip?

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Getting Somewhere 

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A small lady carrying a bag talks on the phone in a foreign language while a man carrying an iPad pretends to listen to music. It’s early on Saturday morning and someone is regretting their brunch reservation. A woman stands up further down the train and starts a practiced rant. Your stop comes up and you leave, thinking about next year. There are more of them outside and you see the ones doing something interesting for a second and then they, too, fade.

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The Time We Sat Together

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There was a chair in the corner facing the wall and I figured there was some meaning to it. “Look at that chair,” I said to my friend, well, I call him my friend but only for convenience sake. I knew him too well to be an acquaintance and cared for him too little to be a true friend.

But we all have those.

And my friend, an old man with long whiskers and garish green sunglasses said to me a most curious thing.

“I will not look,” he said. “I never look upon the dead.”

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Certainties

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Jan’s tax returns had to be filed by seven o’clock because then she was leaving for Anchorage, Alaska and she wouldn’t be back before the fifteenth. This thought consumed her as she stared across the East River into Manhattan. A man behind her said something that she ignored and then she was falling. It had been a senseless world after all, she thought.

A street mural of a girl thinking.

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Our Last Night, You and I

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An unfinished building at night with glare from street lights.

Did you imagine you knew, did you think for any amount of time, did you, in all likelihood you did, at this point I’m being extra dramatic out of disbelief. You couldn’t have possibly known what the night meant, but you walked around with that dreadful camera taking low resolution pictures of everything like you were at some kind of a zoo.

An unfinished building at night with glare from street lights.Who does that? You do, you fucking psychopathic.

Asberger’s.

Poster child.

What.

Is wrong with you?

You know what? It doesn’t even matter what’s wrong with you, it really doesn’t…it so doesn’t matter because we’re done here. Just stay away, keep your weird shit out of my space so I can try to forget you exist.

And they were all like you that night. Because that’s what you do, infect people.

I don’t even know why I have to…

I don’t have to. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck your camera, you know what. Give me that fucking camera you sick…

Nevermind. Fuck it. What’s done is fucking done I don’t give a fuck I don’t take any of it back and at the same time I’m never going back and thanks, by the way, for ruining the night.

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That Island In Your Former Life

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It was a cold black morning in the northern hemisphere on an island created by a volcano. In those days it was always cold and black in the morning and there was a man who tended to the ashes of last night’s fire. He came around before you’d wake up, your feet were exposed near him and he would cover them with a thick scratchy blanket. His mother had given him the blanket before she died. She died a horrific death.

You wouldn’t want the blanket, you’d leave notes for the man, “Please, keep your blanket for yourself.”

But the man would never listen. He didn’t want you to die, for some reason, maybe because if you did, he’d be out of a job. And his mother had died from a case of cold feet, or that’s what he’d been told. He’d taken it literally, basically because he was a little slow in the head, and that’s why the only job he could get was tending the ashes of your old fire.

You’d wake up to a roaring fire and a scratchy death blanket.

You don’t remember that you watched TV for hours every night. That you squandered all those free nights on TV and arguments. That you came up with weird plans for writing that took everything into account but actually writing shit down. That you got hot with alcoholic headaches, that you ran after busses and stayed in bed and had sex in the afternoons.

A few people in those times went willy-nilly into the night like dragon faced gargoyles with no self respect. They came back later to confirm their dental appointments. One of the guys was experiencing the sensation of chewing on nails whenever he drank fruit smoothies.

But maybe that happened to everyone eventually. Maybe that was the point of it all, to realize your capacity for savagery, and to take steps to end your life before it all got too damn depressing and you found yourself sleeping on a pile of dead cats.