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I’m Off…

…into the wild blue yonder.
Or perhaps the unnerving chartreuse abyss.
The catastrophic taupe unknown.
What Monty Hall might host as  “ The Insert Interesting Adjective, Insert Fun Color Name, Insert Mysterious Noun Game”.

Well, whatever the fuck we choose to call it, I’m leaving into it.

My own spiritual quest for peace seems to have inspired me to venture outside of my comfort zone into a world I know not much of. And so I’m off to find some kind of meaning for myself outside of PBR, confused women, hipster douchebags with ironic mustaches, and all the other distasteful things that have inundated my world with a heavy sense of dread.

Maybe I’ll return. Maybe I won’t.  It’s up in the air at the moment.

But, if my efforts are for naught, at least you’ll have my cat pictures and drunk writings to remember me by.

-Eric

Easily the illest groove in the history of the world.

I can see why Miles was tryna hit that.

Bootzilla.

When someone tells you that they want to be friends, all they are really saying is that they don’t want you to hate them. They are not interested in friendship. They simply want to avoid being disliked and judged unfavorably. It is a tactic to avoid conflict, and not an honest wish for the continuation of an interpersonal connection.

True friends never need to express their wish to be around you; they do it through their actions and their efforts. People who pretend to care are the only ones who make such silly requests. The need for verbal or textual confirmation only signals the unnecessary prolonging of something that need not continue.

“But I still want to be friends”, seems like how every polite relationship ends. It is never, to quote the great poet MC Hammer, “legit”. Or perhaps it is too legit; I’m not really qualified to speculate on such matters.

It all feels like just a bunch of bullshit cowardly posturing that everyone participates in. And I hate it. I hate it to the point of it driving me to a mental institution, or a handgun, heroin or a high bridge over a canyon. Such a request seems incredibly one sided and hollow, like a lame jack-o-lantern carved by a latter day Muhammad Ali or Michael J. Fox.

Then why does everyone do it?

Well, I would say that people are afraid of being honest and terrified of the repercussions involved with rejection. No one wants to leave a bad taste in someone else’s mouth. At least not willingly. Unless you’re the type of person to ejaculate in people’s mouths all willy nilly and such…….. then god save your soul foul beast.

Friendship is just as delicate of a balance as any other sort of relationship. And it is not so easy to cultivate or maintain with a simple desire. It takes work. And no one wants to work for shit anymore.

 

chaplin hitler

#inthebag

current musical feelings

As I get older, my birthday only seems to remind me of the happiness I once experienced in the past.

The driving.
The nicotine and pornography.
The gambling and booze.
The drop in insurance, ability to rent a car and adopt a child (I’ll take things that require the same amount of intelligent thought for 1000, Alex).
The best sex I’ll probably ever have.

When September rolls around, I prepare a checklist of people who care that I’m still alive or not. It’s a celebration for a select group of people to acknowledge the fact that I didn’t drive my car into a hotel pool or choke on my own vomit on a Tuesday. When I hear “Happy Birthday!”, all I actually hear is “Oh, you’re not dead. Congratu-motherfucking-lations!”.

My birthday now only reinforces the fact that I don’t like cake, I shouldn’t smoke weed when I’ve been drinking, and that I like to fuck girls in hotel rooms to Keith Sweat and John Mayer albums.

But my birthdate never fails to deliver me the best present: the gift of making me realize that I’m losing time trying to fulfill my dreams. That I’m getting old before my time. That I’m not making myself happy by realizing my full potential and all those other things my half-assed guidance counselor told me in high school. ….or at least the one at the high school Claire Danes and Jared Leto went to.

Oh well, can’t stop the future from hitting you in the face.

 

In case you didn’t get the title:

He turns to her, that angelic soul sitting in the passenger seat of the late model Volkswagen Passat, and stares curiously at the hands applying light blush and mascara. He sighs.

“Doth thou needest more hours to don thy disguise, Jules?”

“Only but a moment my lord,” she replies.

A raised eyebrow allows his disdain to escape unnoticed. Eyes like knives, the thieves of lives, shoot across the foot and a half betwixt the two lovers. She mindlessly paints her face with lab rabbit murder chemicals. After finishing, the two exit the vehicle.

“What is the level of beauty in thine appearance?”

He is speechless. Her incredible image renders him immobile.

“Such splendor has stolen words and heart.”

“Tongue of honey you possess. Like music unto thine ears. Shall we enter?”

“Indeed. Begrudgingly, our quest beginnith.”

The two emerge into the store hand in hand past new families and meatball fanatics. The vast expanse of home décor is intimidating; like a hooker, a la Julia Roberts, before a virgin.

“Romeo, Romeo, where fore art thou scented candles? Deny thy bedding and refuse thy modular furniture.”

“Dost my love seek fragrances available elsewhere? Hath we traveled to distant lands in search of candles?

“To be true.”

“Your gentleman is at a loss of the New England Tennessee match for your actions. The RedZone playeth not in this establishment.”

“Do not guilt the ones thou love.”

“What’s in a name? A Scandinavian furniture company’s candles would be just as sweet by any other title.”

“Candles the draw, the experience the holder.”

“The expectation of thine most profound love for you did not include this.”

“We hath taken our lives to be here together, and you wish you had not?”

She turns to him to look into his eyes. He lets out a heavy, pained breath. A lengthy pause follows.

“I won’t lie to you. Look, that whole suicide thing was just a ploy. And this stupid old English speech was me trying to get into your pants. I thought you was sexy as fuck and I was trying to hit that. This end table and pillow sham shit I ain’t with.”

“Thou hath discouraged love.”

“To be fair, Shakespeare never included the monotony and compromise of long term love. We were fucked from the jump.”

 

 

 

Short and Sweet

I kept trying to tell myself that it was nothing, but a small part of me couldn’t let go. There was one little dagger still left in my brain that encouraged a particular set of thoughts in which I couldn’t quite escape from. And even after many daysweeksmonths passed, that vision and those thoughts tarried to torture me. It was funny that what set me off was a car. A car parked out front of a house. A rolling metal box with windows and wheels and wipers and potential passengers placed precisely in my environment. A stupid ordinary fucking white Cadillac in front of a house that reminded me of everything; and, like the barbed hook in a trout’s mouth, was nearly impossible to rid myself of.

The first time I saw it: I disregarded it.
The second time I saw it: I found it odd.
The third time: it seemed like more than a coincidence.

But what was it exactly?

The last time I saw that white car it was drenched in blood and all I could hear were screeching tires, gunshots, and the perpetual ringing of alarms.  Harsh voices at dangerous volumes were prevalent. All of those feelings came back again when I saw that vehicle. The robbery. The betrayal. The killing. Even if it wasn’t the same one, it still broke the levee that held back the emotions contained by a poorly managed institution when I saw that model of modern transportation.

And the more I thought about it, the more I saw it. At the 7-11. The post office. The Taco Bell drive thru. Everywhere I went there was a white sedan that represented my feelings for a person and an event.

All I could do was forget.

 

The Brush-Off

Oops. Wrong “off”. Well, you know…read on despite the Lil’ Kim and Timbo.

For the most part, I’m very easygoing. I feel that I’m wise enough to understand the presence of things in the world, and choose if they should or should not affect me accordingly. Few things are able to lodge themselves beneath my skin and cause a noticeable irritation. I can roll with the punches like Sugar Ray Leonard on ecstasy. I have become well equipped to acknowledge the purpose and significance of people’s actions and the goings on around me. However, there is one thing that will forever irritate and frustrate me:
The brush-off.

brush-off, n: a quietly curt or disdainful dismissal

The avoidance is worse than the pure, unhindered rejection; similar to calling Christopher Reeves a pussy when he broke his most important of structural systems, it adds insult to injury. Dismissal I can handle, but the lack of any ounce of compassion I cannot. To me, it is perhaps one of the rudest and most careless things one human can do to another. To treat someone as unworthy of a simple explanation, for better or worse, defines true cowardice. Yet, for whatever reason, it seems like a popular tactic amongst our civilization.

In my life, the brush-off has ended relationships, killed the birth of new ones, damaged friendships, and stranded me in the dark regarding employment and education opportunities. It has often left me wondering if the other party had died, or some other such tragic event had occurred, or if I had committed some sort of atrocity. And thus I tended to blame myself because I didn’t know any different.

Then I had an epiphany that all these people I’d come in contact with throughout my life were just shameless poltroons; made useless by fright. Individuals too selfish to determine a finite ending, and too proud to concede to one. Thus, such a mindset ignored me and abandoned me with my thoughts and paltry words which soon festered into an angry and hateful wound in my soul. And this, dear reader, has not been an isolated incident, but one that still continues in many of my personal meetings.

I take it in stride and try not to be that way. That’s really all I can do. Learn and grow, and leave all those worthless self-centered motherfuckers in the dust. I cannot change others minds at this stage of the game, so I ain’t even gonna try. I can only start shooting a little straighter, more from the hip, and be more frank, honest, and direct. Making observations of the pitfalls I’ve noticed, and declaring my avoidance of them, is the only consolation I have at this point. And I will cherish the shit out of that.

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