An Omission.

I meant to include this in the previous post, but I had misplaced the original copy and didn't type it until just now.
Here it is, along with two bonus pot-thoughts! 


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     A conscious and sentient being also has the gift and ability to gather information about their surroundings and use that information to make informed decisions. Take, for example, a frail elderly lady with a walker and a penchant for feeding stray cats. Her name is Pearla and she lives alone with no family to speak of. One night after feeding her hoards of felines in make shift bowls crafted from tissue boxes and milk jugs, she retreats shakily into her meager dwelling. Pearla’s mind is not as sharp as it once was, and in her haste to catch Matlock, Pearla neglected to latch her screened porch door properly. Later tonight as she slumbers, Pearls veritable armies of feral cats will enter her domain. They will slip silently into her bedroom where she rests, and they will devour her aged and baglike body in a blitzkrieg of claws, fur, and contented mewing.

     Had Pearla been immune to the ravages of time, her senses would not have become dulled and she would perhaps have noticed not latching her door. Had her ears been in their prime, Pearla would have heard the ear piercing yowls as the cats entered her home with nothing but murder in their eyes and malice in their hearts. Oh, but Pearla could feel. She could feel every claw as they grazed her bones, every rip of a fang in her skin. She could feel everything as her life was snuffed like a candle at the paws of her former feline companions. 

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"I'd ride a bear. Saddle it up and go."
"I wouldn't, I'd ride it bear-back."
Get it? Bear back?

"If my period is even a little bit late, I take a pregnancy test, even if I haven't gotten laid in months."
"God wouldn't give you an immaculate conception."
"Yeah, because wouldn't it be awful when I aborted the Saviour?"

Mistakes.

If one were to sit quietly, listen closely, and pay attention to what one sees, they may be surprised. Just by sitting on my couch, I can hear the banjo in “Friend of the Devil”, the white noise of my Xbox 360 and laptop; the 360 being more of a loud fan, the laptop? A muted whisper.  By seeing, I can view the light from the TV throwing multicolored shadows on the wall and the way the AC vent blows the curtains around. There is a single sandy paw-print on the black carpet. While one can observe many things, are they considered aware? Typically, the answer is no. Many people exert all of their mental energy on the task or tasks at hand. They’re paying attention to what they’re doing, with not much else besides. That can be wonderful at times, and a dire negative at others. Paying too much attention can lead to paranoia and fear, while wandering through life with ones head in the clouds can have disastrous and entirely preventable consequences.

Alone in the woods on a dark night, perhaps sitting on ones back porch. A person hears crickets and the rustle of animals. Another noise is heard; a splintering crash, a pained animal wail. The logical and probable conclusion is that a tree has fallen on a mommy bunny and bashed her skull in, and her now-orphaned baby bunny is wailing out its tortured, agonized lament. However, a person who is too aware, paranoid, and scared would probably think differently. That person would probably assume that Bigfoot has just caught their scent and is racing through the forest towards them, ripping trees from the ground and stomping small creatures. They know that Bigfoot is rampaging towards them intent on raping and murdering their families, before crudely dismembering them and sucking the marrow from their bones. It’s all a matter of awareness. If a person sits outside and listens to closely, they may hear things. It’s up to the human mind to interpret such information and draw a probable and proper conclusion.

However, being consistently unaware can have results just as calamitous as being overly alert. Consider this: someone (We’ll call her Samantha) walking down the street one morning after a night of getting black out drunk and having meth-sex in a dive-bar bathroom; she’s contemplating whether or not she should go to the clinic. “I wonder if I could have chlamydia.” Walking along, observing the world above her and thinking about last night’s events and paying not nearly enough attention to the world beneath her feet, Samantha falls into an open manhole. The filthy, stagnant liquid Samantha is now swimming in is filled with garbage, dead rats, and human feces.  Gasping and flailing as she slipped below the surface of the fetid liquid and drowned, her final thought was “Chlamydia is the least of my worries now. Had I been more aware, perhaps I would not have fallen into this open manhole.”

Had Samantha been listening to her own advice, perhaps she would still be alive today instead of a bloated, floating corpse lapping the edges of a metal sewage drain pipe; a pipe that drains into a lake near a Kansas elementary school.  Children play here, and they will find the body. Their teacher will be aware of the need to educated his students about methamphetamines and how they can destroy a young life.

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Imagination is another important part of the human mind. Imagination can take a person anywhere he wishes to go. Day to day life can be mundane, lacking in stimulation and boring, while imagination can spice it up. A perfect example of imagination? Jared. A fat man sitting at his computer, unkempt neck-beard, underwear with a crusty white stain, dirty t-shirt with orange streaks of Cheeto dust streaked across it. His face? An expressionless mask, void of all thought; the only glimmer in his eye is from the computer monitor a few inches away. To most, Jared is someone of no consequence or worth noticing. However, in his imagination, Jared is not a man at all, but a vicious warrior of the Glantel Tribe. Instead of his mother’s basement in New Jersey, he is in the fantastic realm of the Earldom of the Mammoths. This is a nation whose finest warriors ride into battle on gargantuan mammoth steeds with fur like steel wool and tusks like razor blades. In this world, the world of imagination, Jared is at his happiest. He is Dudil Chantwhisperer here, and he is a rising hero intent on causing and then winning a bloody civil war sealing his position as the usurper to the bloody throne as Lord of the Mammoths and ruler of the Earldom.

                Jared is happy in this world. He is powerful and respected. Some might say that it is healthier for him and his state of mind to have such a good imagination. Instead of leaving the confines of his dwelling and facing the cruel world beyond (which no doubt views him as a fat loser with no good looks, friends, goals or quantifiable talent to speak of) Jared prefers to remain firmly seated in his rolling chair, firmly in the seat of his steed, battling evil dwarven forces and raping beautiful elven women as they slumber in their beds. A far happier and carnally more pleasing existence brought to you by the power and wonder of Imagination.

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While awareness and imagination are both important, they are nothing without education. Education is all of the knowledge one gains and learns and is taught. Education is anything learned, be it the Pythagorean Theorem or medical knowledge gained while working night shifts in a Soviet free healthcare clinic. A healthcare clinic where the dead bodies were dismembered most gruesomely and then packaged in giant zip-locking bags, shipped on dry ice to a factory. Once at the factory, these human cadavers are emulsified into a mash of bloody limbs and organs, and then strained through a sieve to remove all traces of bone splinters and tendons, creating a paste of human flesh. Spices are then added and the slurry is injected into casings and sold as a cauterized and low-cost meat alternative to the families of the now edible deceased. Surely this is education and knowledge of several things- anatomy, how to make sausages and the ever valuable knowledge of a profitable business model.

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Human consciousness is a wonderful thing. It grants so many things to such a fickle species. Curiosity is both a gift and a death sentence. It is the driving force behind discovery and learning. However, humans and their curiosity can be a self-destructive, multi-faceted phenomenon.  Curiosity leads people to do dangerous things in the pursuit of new information, solved problems, and answers to unanswered questions. Consider the story of Curious Conway. Conway was a young boy, perhaps nine. He was a boy scout and quite excited to go on his first troop camping trip. Curious Conway was, as the name would suggest, an inquisitive sort of boy. His mother recalls him reading books at his local library and the way his peals of laughter ran gout as his young brain filled with new information.

Of course, that was before the accident. On that fateful camping trip, Conway’s curiosity got the better of him. Straying from the group, Conway goes off to pick berries and father nuts, intending to impress his scoutmaster and fellow Cub-scouts with a feast harvested from the bounty of the forest. During his gathering, Conway stumbles upon a mysterious mushroom. Referring to the Field Guide to Fungi (a staple for all scouts) Conway learns that the mushroom will not poison him. He places it in his mouth and continues his harvest of fresh, bright raspberries. Soon, Conway’s vision becomes distorted and his perception skewed. Everything takes on a quality resembling a beloved childhood animated bear and his tiger and piglet friends. As he ambles through the woods, Conway stumbles upon a beehive. His visions have made him suddenly ravenous for honey. Ascending the tree, Conway attempts to gouge the nest from the limb upon which it rests. In his intoxicated and hallucinogenic state, Conway has forgotten the first rule of scouts- always help your country.  Instead of helping the economy of his financially hard shipped country by purchasing domestically produced organic honey budlets, Conway tried to pry the beehive open. As the bees swarmed out in an angry and predatory shapeless black mass, Conway let out a pained scream.  These were hornets. They don’t make honey. Conway had just enough time to be disappointed in himself before the hornets began their stinging onslaught. Soon, Conway was completely engulfed in bees, stinging him at every available portion of skin until his limbs became swollen and engorged to the point of becoming useless. Forced to lie still by the paralyzing pain, Conway endured the mortal agony of hornets boring their way under his skin. With a final gasp, Conway cried for his scout master to help him. Luckily, his cries were not in vain. When the rest of the troop found Conway’s limb and bloody body, the troop performed rudimentary first aid (what a learning experience!) and carried him to the nearest town on a sledge.

Conway’s mother rushed to the hospital only to find her son riddled through like swiss cheese and in a coma. But still, he was alive. Her only console was the fact that dear young Conway felt no pain as whole hornets were cut from his skin with a scalpel. After two weeks in a comatose state, Conway is nor permanently retarded and missing several limbs. As his mother changes his filth diapers, she remembers his curiosity with fondness: her brave, inquisitive boy. Curiosity was the death of Conway’s short lived healthy life. Had he not eaten that mushroom, perhaps his mother wouldn’t be drinking herself to an early grave.  Echoing the words of Conway’s father as he abandoned his wife and persistently vegetative son in pursuit of earthly sin, “This is all your fault, Conway.”

The Third Man

      Some people view education and enlightenment to be different, some believe they are the same, and a third camp is of the opinion that after enough education, a person can attain enlightenment. Education can be defined as the act or process of acquiring general knowledge and preparing oneself or others for an intellectually mature life. Enlightenment, on the other hand, can only be vaguely outlined as reaching a level of intellectual or spiritual light; “light” being left open to any interpretation, but generally regarded as a new level where one understands what has been illuminated for them. In Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave,” an analogy is used of prisoners held in a dim cave, seeing only what is in front of them and ignorant of their place in the world and truly, anything but the shadows of puppets worked by puppeteers thrown on the walls by the flickering torches in the cave. This allegory is to show that what we learn via education is but a picture of what is reality, and not reality. Only by understanding knowledge gained from education and how it relates to a person’s place in the world may one reach enlightenment; that is to say, education and enlightenment are two heads on the same body: separate and distinct, yet also representative of perfect duality.

     Knowing the definitions of education and enlightenment, a third term must be discussed- intellect. Intellect is the capacity to learn and seek knowledge for oneself and to reason and understand the world independently.  Intellect is the main link between education and enlightenment because knowledge must be sought before it can be understood.  In Allegory, Socrates uses a comparison of two men in a cave. Both men know only shadows projected on the wall by the flickering fire. These shadows, while they are images of reality, they are not real. The chained men have the ability to see the shadows and learn about them and what they represent, but they can never view the true objects casting the forms on the wall. Ergo, they are educated about what they see, but not enlightened because they can’t fully understand what they are seeing. Neither can they become enlightened until they understand that the shadows are mere images and small portions of what is real. Because of intellect, each man seeks as much as he can learn about his world. Each man will want to know what he is seeing, be it grass on the ground or silhouette of a rabbit on the wall. Each man will seek to know as much as is possible about his world, intellect being the primary motivator for such seeking.

     The following quotation explains how the long, rugged journey upward and out of the cave is the leaving of education and the beginning of the ascent to understanding and thus, enlightenment:

And suppose, once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light, his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything of what are now called realities. (129)

Then, the man’s eyes are no longer dazzled. Instead of the constantly flickering and changing shadows in the dim glow of the caves light, the man now sees the world for what it is. After being shown images and representations of reality in the form of dim shadows, he experienced a change in the form of gaining his freedom. The man’s point of blindness was his moment of understanding, and that moment of understanding is when he has truly reached enlightenment. He now understands that the shadows are shadows and nothing more, and he understands that he is a man and can cast a shadow of his own. The sun, representing the truth of the world, is so bright that he is blinded, but soon it is nothing but perfectly clear to him. The man knows of the shadows of the cave and of the world as it is illuminated by the sun, and he is educated and enlightened.  The second man, a forgotten prisoner of the cave, will not know enlightenment until he is free; he is ignorant of his own ignorance. Only a man who is aware of both realities is enlightened, because it is he alone that truly understands his world.

            There is a third man, a man who knows only of the outside world. He has never been in the cave and he has never seen the flickering and ever changing shadows cast by the puppeteers; he has never been educated about the shadows. He has only seen the bright sun and the outside world as it is. Is this man considered enlightened because he has seen the same things that the freed prisoner has seen? No, because he is only educated about his world. He doesn’t understand that there are prisoners beneath his very feet and that there is another form of learning about things than by simply seeing them with your own eyes. This third man is unenlightened, because he is ignorant to the lesser reality unknown to him. Thus, he cannot know and fully understand his place in the world.  “And when he (the freed prisoner) remembered his old habitation and the den of his fellow prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change and pity them?” (130) Would the third man pity the prisoners, had he been aware of their existence? It is likely that he would. The third man would view the cave’s inhabitants as people to be pitied, the lack of true knowledge something to be lamented. If he were sent to the cave to watch the shadows, the third man would understand that they were images and not reality, and he would become enlightened of the lesser reality. However, the prisoners do not know what the man knows, and they would remain woefully ignorant.

The puppeteers can be viewed as teachers or as dictators. They can either be sharing knowledge with the prisoners or forcing knowledge upon them. As a college student, I feel that modern universities and institutes of higher learning are caves. We students are shown shadows of what the puppeteers want us to see.  When I go to class, I gain education and learn new things and have more information about the shadows I see, but it is up to me to use that knowledge to understand the world around me for myself. Education can be taught, enlightenment must be attained for the individual, because it applies only to oneself. An enlightened person can’t simply walk up to an educated person and make them understand their own world, because no two people are alike. While I may be educated, I do not consider myself enlightened. I am intellectual and intelligent, but I am lacking an understanding of my place in the universe or purpose for living. I have no personal experience of a moment of bright understanding of my life, and perhaps that is my deep understanding. While I am not a prisoner in a cave and can understand that there is more to the world than my existence, neither do I understand my existence and my reason for being. I understand that I am insignificant against the giant, unfathomable expanse of the cold, dark and empty universe, but I do not consider such knowledge to be enlightenment.

According to Andy Bill Barlow, “Only one who knows both may achieve truer understanding.” Only one man is enlightened- the man who left the cave and, after a period of dazzling white light, saw the world for what it is. This is the only man who understands that the shadows are pictures of reality. The man in the cave truly believes that the shadows are real while the fictional third man is uneducated of the shadows, and also unenlightened. Education and enlightenment are two fish in a circle, each needing the other to be a whole; education and enlightenment are both bound and held fast by intellect, the catalyst for seeking knowledge, without which neither would be within the grasp of a man. If a man does not seek knowledge, he is neither educated nor enlightened, because every great journey must begin with a step in the right direction.

           

Works Cited

Plato. “The Allegory of the Cave.” Mercury Reader. Ed. Janice Neulib, Kathleen Shine Cain, Stephen Ruffus. Boston: Pearson Custom Publishing. 2008. 127-131. Print.

Barlow, Andy Bill. Personal interview. 20 April 2010. 

Shorts and longs.

Right now, I am not yet high. I have all the tools necessary, yet I have not taken a hit. My bowl is packed and my bong is full of ice. I have music on and video games at the ready. Why am I writing about not getting high instead of getting high? Well, dear Cornelius, because I am a pot head, and pot heads procrastinate. Not everything, and not all the time. But it happens. It always happens. I don’t even mean to procrastinate, put things off, be a little late to everyone else’s party. I mean, I didn’t even know there was a fucking party, much less that I was supposed to bring the beer. Shit. I do mean to be lazy sometimes.  And you know what? I don’t fucking care. If I want to get high and Google shit for an hour before playing my DS, I can. I can get high and go to class, or not go. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m not gonna get shit done man. I’m just gonna go along at my own pace. That’s all. Maybe some people work well under pressure.

Dear Headmaster,

Yo. I just got your address out of a book. What’s with not sending me a letter yet? I’m 20 damn years old, and I’m still waiting on that owl-post. Most kids start at 11. Is there a night class or something I’m missing? I know I’m not your typical witch or wizard, but I’m still pretty magical. I’m smart and willing to learn. Can I bring my bong to Hogwarts? I can use my wand to light the dankity dank Professor Sprout grows down in the greenhouses. Yeah man. Yeah. I feel I need special magical training. Growth charms, auguamenti for cotton mouth.. ACCIO LIGHTER! All very useful for a stoner. Help a lady-bro out, man.

Sincerely, A stoner.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I’ll hit this bong

And then pass it to you

I’m glad my cactus doesn’t need much care. Seriously. I like plants, but I hate having to keep shit alive. Good thing I don’t want kids.

Sometimes I wish I said things like “thou” and “shall” and various other ye olde English phrases. Or a British accent. I just want everything I say to sound better by default.

Hello.

I like writing.

I write all sorts of things. 

One day, I'd like for people to pay to read my writing.

For now, I'll put it on the internet and see what happens.

If people like my thoughts, that's definitely a step in the right direction.

I'll post more when I type it. But for right now, I'm all typed out. 

-Spenser

(After 4/20, I should have a really good piece up. Rambling and boring, but formal and I feel that it is nothing short of undiluted genius.)

(But then, I do feel that all of my thoughts are undiluted genius.)

A dialogue.

I have died. I am in hell.

Weird. Why is it so red? My eyes aren’t even open, and I can already tell the color of everything around me. It’s red. A dull red behind the darkness of my eyes. Why are my eyes even closed? It’s the middle of the day and I have shit to do.  I should open my eyes, but I’m already probably late anyway.  Yup, can’t be any more behind than I already am, right?

Wrong.

What the fuck happened? Where the hell am I? It looks like I’m in an old fashioned train. A really fucking red train. Red leather, red floors, red curtains, red walls. I guess red was “in” in the 1850s.

Ok, so I’m in a train. That’s not all that strange. Ok, that’s a lie. It’s really fucking strange. Why am I in a goddamned train? OH MY GOD, AM I GOING TO HOGWARTS?

I bet I’m not.

Alright champion,  let’s think about this. What’s the last thing I remember doing? Oh! I had to shit. I got dizzy and then.. and then what? Goddamnit, did I pass out on the toilet? I bet I passed out on the toilet and this is all some kind of fucked up dream. I knew I shouldn’t have been drinking at 9 in the morning, I knew it. How did I get this drunk? I’ve never gotten so drunk I hallucinated I was in a train car. This is scary.

I should call someone. Where’s my phone? It was in my pocket a minute ago. I bet I left it in the car, fuck. So. I’m on a train with no phone, no idea how I got here, and I think I’m passed out drunk. Woo. I know how to fucking party. EARTH TO SPENSER: WAKE THE FUCK UP, YOU HAVE SHIT TO DO. YOU ARE BEING A DRUNK ASSHOLE.

Hm, usually that works. I must really be out of it. I thought that when you realized you were dreaming you had the power to wake up. Why don’t I have that power? Oh, because I’m not headed to Hogwarts. Damnit. RECOVER MAN. RECOVER.

Alright. Things we have definitely established: not dreaming, not drunk. Am I dead? The last thing I remember is getting dizzy on the toilet. That settles it. I died on the toilet. That’s pretty fucking rock star.  LOOOOOVE FIIIIIIIIIST. I think I’d remember dying, though. Seems like an unforgettable, once in a lifetime type of event. But, I don’t guess you could remember, could you? Being dead and all. Doesn’t your brain stop? Huh.  I wonder what killed me. I bet it was that neurological thing on Wikipedia I was reading about. Adie’s syndrome. Or something. Its only symptom and effect is causing one eye to dilate differently than the other, resulting in sometimes uneven pupils. Usually it affects women 18-24 and is harmless. AM I A MUTANT? T-u-r-t-l-e power! No, I couldn’t get that lucky. No one dies and gets to be reborn as a ninja turtle.

Oh what the hell am I even talking about? Why the hell am I even talking to myself? Can’t I just have a normal train of thought without having to fucking talk myself down? No. God. Damnit.  You don’t have a neurological disorder and it didn’t turn fatal. Fucking stand up and try to find out where you are. This is a pretty big train. Ok. I will. I can do this.

(Upon standing, I hear a mysterious voice. Not a deep voice, this isn’t fucking Oz, there are no wizards and I’m not fucking Dorothy. Anyway, this voice, it’s sorta like a woman and a man. If I had to guess, the  name would be Pat. Pat the Russian. Weird. That’s definitely a “vodka drink you” type of accent.)

**Everything in Italics is the Mysterious Voice. (To be identified later.)**

“Hello Spenser. I hope you find your accommodations pleasing to you. I remember you mentioning that you’ve always wanted to ride on a, ah hem, proper train. And I know how you like the color red.”

Should I answer? How does Pat know these things? Is my mind being read? I hate this sci-fi bullshit, I swear to god I do.

“Uhhhh, hey there. Do I know you? I feel like an idiot for talking to myself. Can I see you? Are you reading my mind? Hey! Am I dead? Can you tell me that one?”

“Yes, Spenser. You are dead. Neither drunk nor sleeping, but dead. I swear, it’s always the young ones that act astonished. Oh, am I dead, teehee! They always feel like they are above death- that death is only for the old ones!”

“I still can’t see you.”

“That’s because this conversation is taking place inside your mind. You aren’t imagining things. I’m a wizard, and you’re on your way to Hogwarts!”

“Fucking seriously?! SWEET ASS! Oh my god dude, when do I get my fucking wand? Do you know Ollivander? I’m not 11. Is this like a late acceptance course? Like continuing education? A magical GED? Am I less of a wizard? WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME GOD?”

“Calm down. Christ, you’re an idiot. This isn’t the Hogwarts Express. That’s not even real. A wizard? All it takes is a train and a mysterious world to make you think you’re in Harry Potter?”

“Shit, I thought I might still be dreaming. Pardon me for wanting to dream about something cool.”

“Oh, I see you’re a clever one. I like you. I’ll tell you who I am. I am Satan, Lord of the High Unholy Flaming Underworld. You may call me Satan.”

“Why do you have a Russian accent?”

“I just reveal to you that you’re dead in and having a conversation on a train bound for hell, and you wonder why I have a Russian accent?”

“I mean, yeah. I can kinda understand the rest, deal with it, but the accent makes me curious.”

“Well, doesn’t it just sound evil? In Mother Russia, Vodka drink you! Such is life in Moscow. It’s got an eastern-European castle and coffin sort of feel, doesn’t it?”

“Er, that would be Transylvanian. More of a Dracula. What you’ve got is more of a Stalin thing going on.”

“Motherfucker.”

“Sorry.”

“So, are there refreshments in hell? What is there to do? I hope it’s not an eternity of nursing homes. I fucking hate old people.”

“Yeah, we got drinks, but nothing cold. It’s hell. Eternal damnation, fire and brimstone, that sort of thing. We’ve spruced up a bit since Dante and his divine “comedy.” Shouldn’t a comedy be funny? I fail to see the joke. Anyway, we’ve cleaned it up a bit. Isn’t this train nice?”

“Yeah, actually. Little bright, but otherwise good.”

“Well, it’s hell. Red décor is only fitting.”

This is weird. I thought Satan was gonna be a douche. I mean, he’s kinda pervy but not really too bad. Long winded, but not bad conversation. I hope he has V8 in that fridge.

“Sweet! You do have V8.”

“Red décor ring a bell? And like I said before- we’ve cleaned up the place a bit. It’s gone from pain and suffering of the worst kind imaginable to minor annoyances. I mean, it still sucks, no water pressure, the AC is always either leaking down your shirt or not working, lotta old people on the highways. I might change that, though. Old people driving even pisses me off, and I’m Satan.”

“Speaking of being pissed off- got weed?”

“Yeah, it’s hell. We have really, really, really good shit. But your bong water is always warm and slightly dirty. “

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuuck. I hate warm bong water more than I’ve ever hated anything in the entire world.”

Fuck.

“ I know champ, I know.”

“Alright, so what did I do to end up in here? I mean, I was kind of an asshole, but not really go-to-hell worthy, you know?”

“I get that a lot. And no, you aren’t. That’s the problem. Heaven is like a night club- you know how night clubs turn people away for 

dress codes? Well, everyone for about the past 500 years has been wearing nothing but Ed Hardy, get what I’m saying? Heavens just turning people away. Nearly everyone.”

Haha, Ed Hardy. 

ATTENTION: WEARING ED HARDY MAKES YOU A DOUCHEY FAGGOT. YOU MIGHT AS WELL JUST GET GUIDO TATTOOED ON YOUR GREASY ORANGE FOREHEAD. I HATE YOU ED HARDY. I HATE THE FACT THAT YOU HAVE CUSTOM TRASHCANS AND TAMPONS.

“Anymore, you have to be a bloody Pope to get in up in Heaven. That’s the reason we changed it up a bit. I mean, the guys that fuck Rottweiler’s with baby skulls and massacre six million Jews and shit like that still get burned to death and eaten by locusts in swirling winds with ear splitting wails from all those they tormented, the only relief being wet human feces as they swing from their ankles… er, sorry. Sometimes I just go off on these tangents.  Hell has really good shit, you know where I’m coming from.”

“God, what the fuck. WHAT DID I DO TO END UP IN HERE?”

“Oh. Remember all those Lady Gaga songs and videos and lyrics and pictures and e-collectibles you downloaded? Well, that was really evil. So that’s why you’re here. You should be supporting Lady Gaga because she is awesome, and not downloading her stuff because you don’t have any money left over after buying pot. That’s why you’re in hell. Congratulations, you’re a fucking dumbass.”

“Damn. Yeah, I’m a fucking dumbass. I know I should support Haus of Gaga by buying her albums, but it was good shit!”

“Also, you died from a fairly common and usually harmless neurological disorder known as Adie’s Syndrome. It causes your pupils to dilate at different times and..”

“Wait, let me guess. Mine went fatal, right?”

“No, you were reading about it on Wikipedia and you had to use the bathroom, so you got up and sat on the toilet. You stood up and slipped on a towel and fell headfirst into the tub. Your neck snapped and you were killed instantly.”

“Aweeeeesome. I was kinda hoping for waves of blood and splintered bone, but that’s pretty cool.”

“Anyway, I guess I should come clean now. I’m not Satan, this isn’t hell, you aren’t dead.”

“I was just beginning to get comfy.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, what’s the real story?”

“You just got black-out drunk on cheap beer and passed out in the bathtub after pissing on yourself.  If you get up, you can still shower 

and make it to school. Splitting headache though. You should probably just skip.”

“Planned on it.”

Upon waking, I realized that I had, indeed, pissed myself, and that I was, in fact, in a bathtub. Guess that explains the warm water in hell. Fuck, now I gotta do laundry.

Gotta know a guy.

Sometimes, people do things you gotta “know a guy” for.

A play.

(Scene: Outside on a brightly lit, sunny day. Four unremarkable 18-24 year olds, two male, two female, stand in front of a Taco Bell. They’re discussing the new sayings on the hot sauce packets and wondering why one of the hotness-levels is now colored green when an older man approaches.)

Peb: I’m going to get a Mexican pizza combo meal with an extra burrito and two soft tacos.

Spohan: I’ll have six quesadillas and a cheese roll. With an extra cup of cheese. Please.

Lyra: Hm, I was thinking more along the lines of a cheesy potato burrito with a cheesy potato taco. And maybe a potato bowl to dip it in.

Spearla: Nah dude. 89 cent burrito and a soft taco with no lettuce. Fuck to the yeah. And a strawberry frutista. That’s fruit, right?

Lyra: Yeah dude, that’s fruit. Lemme hit that when you get it, got wicked 0h-mams.

(The older man has approached.)

Osama: Hey, you wanna buy some weed?

Peb, Spohan, Lyra, Spearla together: Yeah. Yeah dude. Whatever. Sure.

Osama: I give you.. one ounce! Thirty dollah!

(In a whisper to Lyra)

Spearla: Hey, we should ask if he’s part of the Taliban.

Lyra, whispering back: Yeah, get Spo to talk, he’s the most foreign one here.

Spohan: Hey, you aren’t part of the Taliban, right?

Osama: DEATH TO THE AMERICAN INFIDELS!

Lyra: Whoa, calm down bro. Spohan, bad idea. Shut the fuck up. Osama, sir, did you say 30 dollar ounce?

Osama: Yes. I like your country very much, I apologize for my outburst. I love America.

Spearla: Awesome. Hey, someone should pay him.

Osama: Yes, before I blow up Taco Bell.

Peb: Why the fuck would you do that? Taco Bell is fucking delicious and offers a very affordable price spectrum.

Spohan: Here’s 30 dollars. (Handing money to Osama. A jingle is heard.)

Spohan: Sorry.. some of it’s in nickels.

(Upon receiving the cash, Osama opens his trench coat and hands Zohan a wadded up burrito wrapper.)

Spearla: Thanks dude!

(Osama shuffles away, mumbling about a wire.)

Lyra: Can we get our food now? We’ve been standing here for five minutes dicking around.

Peb: Sure. I’ll go order.

(Peb walks inside the Taco Bell.)

(Spohan pulls out the wadded paper and a mini bong. He begins crunching the weed up and packing it. A smell emits.)

Spearla: Wow. This is the first and probably only time I’m ever going to call not-it on greens. Er. Browns, I guess.

(Peb returns with a tray of Taco Bell with about 7 inches of food piled on to it. In his hand, he has a bag of sauce.)

Peb: What smells like corn?

Lyra: That pot we just bought from the terrorist.

Spohan: It has fucking bugs in it.

Peb: I don’t care, I’ll smoke it. Pass it here.

(Peb tokes mightily. Soon, he begins coughing and spitting on the ground.)

Peb: You know the corn smell? Because that’s the same as the taste.

(Peb passes the bong to Lyra, who also tokes mightily.)

Lyra: Corn pot. Fuck man. Give me that frutista to get the taste out of my mouth.

(Lyra passes the bong to Spohan, who puts his burrito down and tokes mightily.)

Spohan: We should burn this. Not like, in that good way. But like, in a fire.

(Takes the bong from Spohan and gives it once last mighty toke.)

Spearla: This is the worst fucking weed ever.

-END-

These are pot-thoughts.

I used to spend my nights at the gas station. Yeah bitch, you wanna go back to my place? Fucking right I got a condom machine on the wall, I know how to have a good time. Spot me a quarter and meet me in the stall.

When I put on bronzer and lie in the sun, I sparkle like Edward Cullen. On this point, I have many mixed emotions.

Are you taking a survey? No, I just like the clip board.

Beat it with a stick. No, that’s a terrible idea.

There are too many dicks on the internet.

You can have all the ham in my giant pork fortress. Ham can be a wonderful experience.

Ow, just ripped off my pinky toe.

Her bloodstream can only be described as “creamy.”

Do the voice overs help you? Because I find them helpful.

I don’t really like moisture, or the word moist.

It irks me something chronic.

Do not beat-box Edgar Allen Poe.

Cheese in stuffed crust pizza comes in giant string cheese logs.

Baby pandas are even more fucked up on the Spanish channel.

I saw a fucking midget today. It was almost as tall as the mailbox it was getting mail from. And they even let the little guy drive. How cute.

I wigged out on the way to class. I was all high, right? And I saw a silver car with stuff on the roof in my rearview mirror, and I assumed it was a cop and that I was going to jail. So I pulled into a church parking lot for a little rest, you know? Fucking car drives by and guess what it is? A goddamned SUBARU OUTBACK. Those weren’t blue-lights, they were bike racks, and I’m a dumbass for getting pulled over by a Subaru.

Sometimes, the phrase “Freshly steamed and lightly sauced” describes the muncher more than the munchee... man.

I don’t know why people insist on naming inanimate objects. Bongs, cars, pipes, Frisbees, bikes, mopeds, basketballs. What the fuck ever. It could be a toaster and it still wouldn’t need a fucking name. You know why? BECAUSE IT CAN’T HEAR YOU ASSHOLE. IT’S NOT ALIVE.

I hate reading out loud in class. Reading for everyone is bad, but the listening to everyone else is worse. It’s not hard to read, and you’re at least 23 years old. Can you stop sounding out “inconsequential” like you’re trying to sound out “The black cat ran.” ? No? I didn’t think so Rain-man. Sit the fuck down.

Sunburn and Australia.

Why oh why did I get in the tanning bed?

Oh what the hell did I do?

My skin is red and my skin is pink?

Why oh why did I not stop to think?

I’m burned at my toes

And I’m burned at my head

I think I am going to stay in my bed.

Giant mutated

Dog eating spiders live there

In warm Australia 

Nobody but me.

Woke up this morning, got out of bed. Put on a robe, shuffled to the kitchen. Three scoops in the coffee pot, black and strong. No cream, no sugar. Warm bitter liquid water.  http://www.facebook.com Use the internet to keep up with everyone else. Walk to the bathroom, the towels are on a hook. Turn on the water, pull back the curtain. Step into the shower, close the curtain tightly. No one likes a cool breeze in a warm shower. Fumbling half-sleep, grab the shampoo. Lather, rinse, repeat. Step out. Cold bathroom. Icy floor. Put on a dry robe. Use a batman toothbrush, do not swallow. Spit, swish, minty fresh. Vile stuff, makeup. Socially demanded. Open the curtains, light fills the room. El sol. To the closet, flick the hangers. Never anything to wear. Fuck this shit, going back to bed.

Dolla dolla bill, y'all. Just the one.

Fuck this fucking dollar. Fuck it in it’s ass.

This one time, I went to the pawnshop. This in and of itself is fairly unremarkable seeing as I am an unemployed college student with too much stuff and too little cash. I went to the pawnshop because I had shit to sell. It was raining out. I grabbed my friend and she grabbed an umbrella, and together we carted a box of shit inside the store. That cheap motherfucker behind the counter offered me 30 dollars for ALL of it. I was like, yeah, fuck that, so we went back outside into the pouring rain with the same box of the same shit.

As I’m sloshing around trying to load the box back into the back of my car, a single one dollar bill fell out of my pocket and into the puddle of water below me.

I. Flipped.  Shit.

How fucking DARE that slip of paper get wet? Who the fuck does it think it is? George best-fucking-thing-he-ever-did-was-end-up-on-money Washington himself? I don’t fucking think so. Oh my god. I am not picking it up. No, I am not going to fucking pick that dollar up. It can lay there and be wet. See if I care. I’ll just.. no, I can’t just drive off and leave it there. It’s a dollar bill. It’s money. What would my dad say? I can hear it now.. "Back in my day gas was only a..." ugh, dad voice in my head. What if a homeless guy found it and bought food? No, I have to pick it up. BUT I DON’T WANT TO, IT’S FUCKING WET AND NASTY. WHY THE FUCK IS IT DIRTY? Fucking filthy pawnshop parking lot, they should really clean this mess up I swear I mean what if someone else’s money gets all fucking wet because of these assholes? I AM NOT PICKING UP THAT FUCKING DOLLAR. “Calm down dude, I’ll get the dollar.” No you fucking will not Lyra Barland, that is my goddamned dollar and I will not have you interfering right now. Just get in the car. Get. In. The. Car. I’ll deal with it.

FUCK YOU DOLLAR BILL, FUCK YOU.

And with that, I balled the dollar bill up into my fist, hurled it into the backseat of my car and drove away, tires squealing. Fucking wet nasty piece of shit, I should have just ripped the damn thing in half and been done with it.

Anyway, I was cleaning my car out today. And I found that dollar, still balled up in the wad of paper it dried in. So, being the mature adult that I am, I spent 15 minutes drawing dicks all over it and then spent it at a gas station. Revenge is sweet.

Fucking appreciate.

Fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck is, without a doubt, my favorite fucking word.  Fucking ever, man. Shit. You can express fucking anything with it. Fuck is a verb, fuck is a question, fuck is a command and a fucking sweet ass adjective. Fuck is a sentence unto itself. A force to be fucking reckoned with. I say fuck all the fucking time for every fucking reason I can fucking think of. What the fuck? Fuck that shit. Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m fucked. Nice shoes, wanna fuck?  I can’t be fucked into caring. Fuck a duck. Holy fucking shit. I’m here to fuck shit up.  Many people think fuck is fucking vulgar- I think it’s fucking beautiful and that those people are fucking assholes. Fuck those guys.  It’s just four fucking  letters. It’s a strong fucking word with a strong fucking sound. F U C K. Saying the word “fuck” isn’t vulgar and doesn’t make you vulgar but fucking an old woman and stealing her fucking purse in the middle of the fucking day is fucking vulgar. Fuck you man, fuck you. It’s fucking rude to steal.

I have no title.

Deepest darkest dungeon dwells

A quiet man whose wisdom tells

A secret

What secret? You may ask of thee.

Yes, comes the answer, Can’t you see?

Known by any other name

Not a secret, but a game

A game of what?

I am not sure.

Deepest darkest dungeon dwells

An excited man, an idea swells

Swells his brain

Pollutes his mind

A knock on the door.

It’s such a late time.

“Allow me to enter. Allow me to pass.”

A booming voice- it does not ask.

Deepest darkest dungeon dwells

A scheming man

A special plan

Lock the door, snuff out the candle.

My secret then, you cannot handle.

To the wall walks the man

In his head, his mind, a plan.

Knuckles white, lifts his arm

Veiny blue, pale with fright

Seeking, searching, in the dark

Spiny hands find their mark

A brick gives way, he cannot see.

Breeze of air, is he free?

Forward then, our hero must press

To remain hidden, his only distress

Deepest darkest dungeon dwells

Our hero no more

He has escaped

What is to become of his fate?

Walking forward

Stiff with fright

Through a passage like the darkest night

Moving slowly

hesitant.

Moving forward, duty calls

His hands are on the walls

of slime

cold and clammy

filth and grime

Water drips from above ground

What is this place? Where is it found?

Straightening up to look around

The man stiffens his back

Squinting, searching, in the black

Up ahead, he sees a gleam

Is it light?

Is this a dream?

Walking slowly

slowly

slowly

his eyes adjusting to the scene

this light is cool, almost green

Pure of heart, sound of mind

The man is running out of time

Quickly now, he must explain.

His special role

In this fatal game

Pausing here, the man finds his voice.

A frail and wispy pantomime

Speaking of another time

Of his former prison

Forgotten there for an unnamed crime

It is not fair, it is not just

Kill me then, if you must

My secret shall remain unknown

Enjoy your crown

And bloody throne

Deepest darkest dungeon dwells

The man no longer

Put to death, our story tells